


Can't Fall In Love

by melissaeverdeen13



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 137,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissaeverdeen13/pseuds/melissaeverdeen13
Summary: April is a junior at the University of Chicago. She’s spunky, sassy, and lives with her two best friends. She’s a good person, confident on the outside, but her friends know next to nothing past the first layer of who she is.Like, for instance, she’s never been in love.That is, until she walks into her Gender & Sexuality class on the first day of school. Professor Avery is unlike any other person she’s seen before. For her, it’s primal attraction, right off the bat.But there’s the age difference. And the fact that he’s her teacher, she’s his student. Also, the fact that she can’t seem to get him to look her way for longer than a fleeting moment.What has to happen in order for him to become more than her professor? The lessons inside the classroom aren’t all she has to learn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this one's gonna be wild. hold on!!

**APRIL**

With a book open on my torso, I lie on my bed and stare at the small potted flower that sits on my windowsill. It’s tiny and yellow, I’m not sure what it’s called, but I’ve spent the last few weeks trying not to kill it. I’m not sure if it’s working. 

I reach over and stroke its tiny petals softly, sighing enough so the leaves quiver. I laugh to myself and move my hand away, then pick up the phone. Tomorrow is the first day of classes, and I’m still waiting on the bookstore to receive a shipment that has my textbooks on it. It’s annoying, to say the least, not being completely prepared. 

I set my phone down, finding no notifications, and look at my plant again. 

“You doing okay?” I ask it, tilting my head so the side of my chin rests on my shoulder. Of course, in the manner of a plant, it doesn’t respond. 

Before I can start speaking to more things that won’t answer, my door comes open and my roommates burst in. My roommates, who also happen to be my live-in best friends, Addison Montgomery and Amelia Shepherd. 

“Uh, hey guys,” I say, jumping at the sudden sound. 

“You’re alive,” Amelia says. 

“Yes…” 

“You haven’t been out of your room all day,” Addison says. 

“I was reading,” I say, gesturing to the book resting on me. It’s  _ The Book Thief _ by Markus Zusak. It’s not the first time I’ve read it. 

“Uh, depressing much,” Amelia says, raising her eyebrows at my choice. “I’m saving you from yourself when I say it’s time to close that book.” 

“Why?” I ask. 

She throws Addie a conspiratory look. “We’re throwing a party!” she cheers. 

I sit up a bit and lean against my headboard. “When?” I say. 

“Tonight, duh,” Amelia says. “Are you gonna be home?” 

My lips part with confusion as I look between them. “Tonight?” I say. “No one’s gonna come. Tomorrow’s the first day of school. You’re psycho.”

“A ton of people already RSVP’d ‘yes’ on Facebook,” Addie informs me. “So, your logic is flawed. Come on, you’re gonna stay at the house, right?” 

I sigh. I have an 8am tomorrow. It’s not like I don’t love a good party, because I do. But a party on the night before my first 8am of the quarter sounds like a recipe for disaster. 

“I don’t know, you guys,” I say, scratching my head. I play with the fraying corners of my book that have been handled roughly over the years. “It doesn’t seem like the best idea.” 

“Come on, A-Team. Don’t ruin it. It’s not gonna be the same if you aren’t there,” Amelia whines. 

“She’s right,” Addie encourages.

I shrug, noncommittal. 

Then, Amelia gasps. “My brother’s coming,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. 

I can’t help the spark that lights up my stomach. There isn’t exactly a label to describe what’s going on between Derek and me, but it’s something. And it’s been ‘something’ for the whole summer. Every time we see each other, we end up making out - drunk or sober. 

Before him, I did this with Alex Karev, who turned into my closest guy friend. I don’t think Derek is heading in that direction, but I’m not complaining about what we have going on. He forces to me to feel and be present, which is all I’m asking for. 

“He told you that?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” Amy replies. “But you should text him. He’d definitely come if his little fuck-buddy invited him.”

She pretends to be grossed out, but I know she’s amused. Her brother and I are not ‘fuck-buddies,’ like she so eloquently put it. I’ve never slept with him, or anyone. I’ve gone just far enough, to the point where I have to stop. And no matter how drunk I am, I always stop. 

My friends don’t know that, though. They think, judging by what they know and see, that I’m decently promiscuous. That I’ve had my fair share of boys in bed, including Alex. But I never went all the way with him, either.

There’s something holding me back from taking that final step. Making out feels good, it feels fine, but it’s not perfect. And when I sleep with someone for the first time, I want it to be perfect.

Derek is a good placeholder for now. 

“Come on, Amy,” I say, laughing a little. “I don’t even like him like that.” 

They both roll their eyes. “April, please. Everyone knows you guys are banging.”

I raise my eyebrows, more interested than annoyed. “They think that?”

“Uh, it’s true, isn’t it?” Addie pushes. 

I let her believe it. It’s much easier than the third degree I’d get for still being a virgin, that’s for sure.

“Okay,” I give in. “I’ll come.” 

“Yay!” they chorus, and hurry out of my room just as quickly as they’d come into it. 

I flop back down on my bed and look to my plant again. Without saying anything, I think she knows how I feel. 

...

“Let’s get fucked up!” I scream. 

The house is packed; voices loud, music louder. I’m holding a red Solo cup, the beer inside sloshing onto my hand and wrist as I stand on the table and dance sloppily to a song I barely know. 

“Jesus Christ, A-Team, leave some for us,” my friend, Lexie says. She comes up to the keg and fills two cups, one for her and presumably her boyfriend, Mark. 

“You’re fine,” I slur, rolling my eyes so hard they might bounce back inside my skull. “Plenty to go around. Drink up, bitches!”

I feel a hand around my ankle as the song changes, then look down to see Amelia standing there. 

“A,” she says, raising her voice above the bass. “Do you think you should slow down? You’re fuckin’ hammered, dude.” 

“I’m  _ sober _ , Amelia Louise!” 

She shoots me a look. “Yeah, right,” she says. “Get off the table. You’re gonna break something.”

I clamber down with help from her, and wobble where I stand as I take another huge slug of my beer. Amelia takes it away, but it’s already empty.

“I want more,” I say, getting in her face to press my nose against hers. “Get me another one, babe.”

Then, the male voices gather around.

“April’s drunk!” someone says. “She’s gonna make out with Girl Shepherd again!” 

I smile loopily at the handful of blurry boys surrounding us, taking stutter steps to stay upright. Amelia’s hands are firm on my upper arms, trying to keep me from falling. 

“April, you should go lay down,” she says, sternly.

“You’re the one who wanted me here,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I’m having fun. And now you’re taking it away? What’s that about? Addie!” 

“Shut up!” Amelia says. “Stop being so loud.” 

“Addie!” I shout again. 

“Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her,” some boy I don’t recognize chants. Or maybe, I do recognize him, but his face is a mess of fuzzy features right now.

“You want me to kiss her?” I taunt, holding my friend’s shoulder. “I’ll kiss her.” 

“April…” Amelia says. 

I hold her face in my hands and plant a big kiss on her lips, tasting her Chapstick as I do. I pull away to a mess of cheering males, clapping each other on the back and smiling open-mouthed and amused at me. I smile back, raising my arms up, hands balled into fists, celebratory. 

“I kissed a girl and I liked it!” I shout. 

...

I was repressed as a child. As a young girl, an adolescent, a teenager, until I left the house and moved to college. I wasn’t allowed to wear pants, only skirts and dresses - calf length, at least. I wasn’t allowed to have any friends that were boys. No secular music or reading was allowed. My family, which included my mother, father, and three sisters, went to church every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. We never missed a day.

I had the bible memorized backwards and forwards; I learned how to read from its pages. When I was a toddler, my imaginary friends were named Peter and John the Baptist. 

We weren’t allowed to question anything, not even innocently. If we did, our punishment was strict groundings. I was homeschooled, so being grounded meant staying in my room, without even coming to the living room to be taught by my mother. 

Everything we did was monitored, on a regimen. I was taught that evolution isn’t real, the Big Bang never happened, and God knew I was a sinner. Though, when that mindset was indoctrinated into me, I was five years old and didn’t know what I could’ve done to deserve such harsh judgment. 

My only friends were my sisters. We weren’t allowed to socialize with the other kids from youth group, because they were too ‘out-there’ for my mother. They went to regular school and listened to popular music and read teenage books. They weren’t basking in God’s glory like we were, and she wouldn’t have us tainted by them. 

The only reason I was allowed to come to the University of Chicago three years ago is because I received a full ride scholarship. For academics, the presidential award. At first, my major was religious studies, if only to make my parents happy. But once I got here, I dove headfirst into a life I’d never known before.

Now, I’m majoring in psychology with a minor in women’s studies. My parents don’t know. They don’t know anything about me. I haven’t talked to them since Christmas of my freshman year; I’ve spent every moment since then trying to break out of the shell they so carefully crafted. 

If they knew the parties I attend, the people I kiss, the places I go and the ideas I flirt with, they’d disown me anyway. My thought was that I might as well do it for them.

And now, I spend my life trying to prove that I can be different from how they raised me.

…

I sit on the couch next to Alex and empty yet another Solo cup. He looks at me and laughs, then shakes his head. I lean back against the cushion, looking at him with only my eyes. 

“What’re you laughin’ at,” I grumble, a drunk smile on my face. 

“You, drunky,” he says, then lights up a bong before taking a hit. “C’mere. Share this with me.” 

I giggle, all topsy-turvy. “If you insist…” I lilt. 

I put it to my lips and instantly my head is light. I feel more carefree, if possible, and take another one to hold it for a long moment. As long as I can, before I cough and burst out laughing with Alex. 

We keep trading it back and forth until our eyes are bloodshot and everyone moves significantly slower around us. I rest back against the couch and let out a long sigh. 

“Life is good,” I say, nodding.

“You’re so fuckin’ stoned, dude,” he laughs, leaning back too.

“And?” I say, smiling. 

We hear a commotion near the door and I look over the back of the couch just in time to see Derek walk in.

“Oh, shit,” I say, then smooth down my hair and pull my leg out from underneath me. 

“I’m out,” Alex says, picking up the bong and taking it with him. “Wrap it before you tap it, Kepner.” 

“Yeah,” I say, waving him off before waving Derek over.

He catches my eye and saunters to the couch, plopping down where Alex had just been. 

“Hey, A-Team,” he says, tipping his chin up in a nod. “How are you?” 

“Good,” I sing, biting my lower lip. Right now, I’m turned on and everything about him is sexy. 

“Yeah?” he says, chuckling. “You drunk?” 

“No…” I say, shaking my head and jutting out my lower lip. 

“Uh-huh,” he says, that glint still in his eyes. “You high, too?” 

“No way,” I say, then whisper, “Just drunk.” 

He whispers back, playing along. “How drunk?” he asks. “Drunk enough to make out with Torres like last time?” 

I smack his chest weakly. “Shut up,” I say, then push myself forward to rest on my hands.

“You know she has a boner for you,” he continues, moving closer too. 

“Stop,” I say, still laughing. “I’m drunk enough to make out with you. That’s it.” 

“Alright,” he says. “Sounds good.”

In a moment, I’m under him. His body isn’t exactly heavy, but it’s substantial as it rests between my thighs and presses me down onto the cushions. When he opens his mouth against mine, I welcome his tongue inside and hold his face while his hands roam my torso, gliding upwards to grip one breast. 

I smile against his lips, squealing a bit. He squeezes harder, propelled by my reaction. This isn’t the first time, probably won’t be the last. 

His stubble is scratchy against my cheeks, but I don’t complain. The feeling is easily lost among the others I’m experiencing, including that of his erection pressed against my inner thigh. And that feeling is perpetuated as he starts to grind his hips in a steady rhythm against me. 

I don’t have the mental capacity to know how to respond, so I wriggle out from under him and switch our positions so I’m on top. I laugh, lower lip between my teeth, while leaning forward with my hands on his chest. 

“I got you now,” I say, face close to his. 

He grips my waist tight and pulls me close, pushing his tongue between my lips again. I keep up with him as best I can, and we kiss until I can barely feel my lips anymore and Amelia’s voice interrupts us. 

“Party’s over, horndogs,” she says, standing near the arm of the couch. “Get up. You heard me. Everybody out.” 

I sit up, still straddling her brother’s lap. “But I live here,” I giggle. 

“April, I’m begging you to be quiet,” she says, giving me a tired look.

I give her a pouty look. Even while drunk, I know she’s fed up with my antics. 

“So, leave, Derek!” Amelia says. “It’s late, we all have class tomorrow.” 

“Your idea to throw a party,” I slur, pointing a finger in the air. 

“Not the time, A,” she growls. 

“Alright, alright,” I say, stumbling up. “I’m going to bed.” 

“I can come up and keep you warm,” Derek says, wrapping his arms around my waist where I stand. I’m by no means steady, so I almost fall over before Amelia takes my hand. 

“I have an 8am,” I say, stomach twisting with dread as I say the words out loud and remember. 

“I’ll be your alarm,” he says. “I can wake you up with-” 

“My phone wakes me up,” I say, smiling sweetly. “With the song ‘Filthy’ by Justin Timberlake.” 

“And that’s exactly what you are,” Amelia says, one hand in the middle of my shoulder blades. “So, up the stairs and in the shower. Or at least, away from me. You smell like Budweiser.” 

I giggle on the way to the stairs, and find Addie along the way. She looks at me funny, so I shoot her the same look back like a mirror, finding it hilarious as I do. 

She rolls her eyes. “Heard you sending Derek home,” she says. “Why didn’t you fulfill your dick appointment? He was offering.” 

All I do is laugh and go up the stairs, leaving her with no answer at all. 

…

Usually, I wake up with the very first note of my alarm. But this morning, the song plays four times in a row before Amelia bangs on my door and practically makes me roll off the bed in fright. 

“I’m tired of hearing that damn song!” she says. “Get up!” 

“‘M up…” I groan, slamming my hand against my phone screen until the song stops. I remind myself to switch songs later. 

My room is spinning. Even as I lie there with my head under the pillow and eyes closed, it still spins. So much so, that I throw the pillow off and run to the bathroom that I share with Addie and throw up everything I ate last night. I don’t remember, but judging by what’s inside the toilet bowl I must have had Pizza Rolls at one point. 

“Shit…” I whisper, wiping my mouth. 

I glance at the clock. It’s 7:38am, and I have absolutely no time for this. 

“Damn it,” I mutter, then do my best to stand, but the bathroom is spinning, too. 

I grab a Dixie cup and fill it with water before drinking it greedily, filling up five more to do the same. I brush my teeth, hoping not to smell like a beer can for class, and tie my hair up in a bun. A brush won’t see its way through the mane today. 

I always try to look nice for the first day of classes, but I can’t say the same for today. Instead of putting together an outfit, I throw on a pair of gray sweatpants I find on the floor and a zip-up hoodie, just a camisole underneath. It’s September, anyway. 

I toss what I think I might need into my backpack and sling it over my shoulder, making sure I wear sunglasses since the sun is assaulting my eyes even through the windows. 

“Good luck, Chuck,” Addie says, sitting at the table with a banana. “You want this?” 

I reach over and take it from her, shoving the last half into my mouth. “Thanks,” I murmur.

“Try not to die,” she says, laughing. “See you after.” 

On the walk to campus, I can barely put one foot in front of the other. My body is weighed down with bricks, and there must be boulders in my pockets. When I get to class, I put my head down immediately even though there’s only a few minutes until it starts. 

This morning, I have Gender and Sexuality, which is a class I’ve never taken before, but it feeds into my minor. I didn’t get a chance to pick the book up from the book store, but I assume we won’t need it today. The first day is always syllabus day. 

People file in around me, cutting it close and finding their seats. I keep my head down, cheek turned to the side, lips puffed out. The classroom is spinning, too. I send a silent prayer to the god I’m not sure if I believe in anymore and ask Him to keep me from throwing up during the next 90 minutes. 

I only open my eyes when I hear a deep, authoritative voice at the front of the room. Wanting to be respectful, I sit up straight and take my hood off, shades too. 

“Hello class,” he says. “I’m Dr. Avery. I’ll be teaching Gender and Sexuality 200, so hopefully you’re in the right room. If you’re not, now’s your chance to leave.” He scans the room. “Or maybe, if you’ve decided you just really don’t want to be here.” 

That gets a few errant chuckles throughout the room, but I don’t laugh. I’m too busy staring. 

I’m sitting in the middle of the large, slanted lecture hall, which I regret now. One part of me wants to be in front, where I can see him better. But the other half wants to be in the very back, where I can hide in this awful outfit and he won’t notice my presence at all. 

He’s tall, with warm, bronze skin. I can’t see much of it, because he’s wearing a crisply pressed white dress shirt, the creases sharp to perfection. So perfect that I doubt he did it himself. He must have sent it out, though, because he’s not wearing a ring.

On his face are thick-rimmed black glasses that amplify his greenish-blue eyes. I can’t quite tell what color they are in this light, but they remind me of sea glass. I let my gaze roam to his mouth, which is moving as he speaks, though I hear nothing. All I can concentrate on are those lips - those plush, pink lips, that his tongue wets after his speech is over. 

I’ve never seen someone more attractive. That is, until he rolls his sleeves up to the elbow and suddenly becomes ten times hotter. 

I don’t take my eyes off him. Not during his introduction, where he talks about his background and I hear nothing. Not during the reading of the syllabus or the outline of the class, none of it. My gaze stays trained on him wherever he moves, whatever he does. I’ve never seen someone quite like him. 

“So, if you’ll turn to the appendix of your textbook, you’ll see…” 

My brain tunes in at that exact moment, and my stomach drops when I realize I don’t have a book. I hear pages flipping, though, which means a lot of people already do. I feel like an idiot, and I don’t want him to call me out on it. I get out my planner and hope it looks like I’m doing something worthwhile as he goes on to talk about what’s in the appendix that we all so desperately needed to look at. 

When class is over, I stand up from my seat after everyone else in my row has left. There are still other students filing out, but the lecture hall has decreased in volume considerably. 

I wring my hands together and keep my eyes on him as he gathers his things. When he reaches across the desk, the muscles in his lower back and shoulders ripple beneath his shirt and I have to work to retain my composure. 

I want to talk to him, but I don’t know what I’d say. Plus, I’m dressed like a bum. Today isn’t the day for confrontation. 

When he turns around, my eyes flit away and I pick up my planner in a hurry. I shove it into my backpack with haste and toss it over my shoulder, slumping as I head out of the classroom and into the hall, where I can finally breathe.

When I get home after my second class, I still have him on my mind. 

“April? Is that you?” Amelia calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I say, tossing myself onto the couch with my arms above my head. It’s hot now, being midday, so I strip off my top layer and lie there in sweatpants and a dirty bra.

“You’re a sight,” she say, coming into the room with a sandwich on a plate. “How was class?” 

“Fine,” I say. 

Addie comes in the front door, tossing her backpack where I’d tossed mine. She joins us in the living room seconds later, at the end of the couch. In order to sit comfortably, she picks up my feet and sets them on her lap. 

“Done for the day?” I ask her. 

She nods. “I had bio and anatomy,” she says. “Syllabus days. What about you guys?” 

“Writing workshop and a chemistry lab,” Amelia says, picking up a leaf of spinach to chew on it. “A, what about you?” 

“Uh… Growing Up Female and Gender and Sexuality,” I say. I cover my face with my hands and groan, then say, “And my professor is so damn sexy for my first class. My 8am. Holy  _ hell _ he was so sexy.” 

“Um, spill,” Addie says. 

I describe his looks, and they listen in rapture. 

“I didn’t hear a word of what happened the entire class,” I say. “Which, if that’s gonna be a thing, I have a problem. But, yeah. He was so, so hot. I wanted to talk to him after class, but I didn’t.” 

“Good choice,” Addie says. “I saw your outfit today.” 

“Shut up,” I say, and kick her lightly. 

“A-Team,” Amelia says, and I look at her with raised eyebrows. “I have a dare for you.” 

“What,” I say, unamused.

“I dare you to sleep with Sexy Professor at least once before the quarter’s over,” she says.

“Amy!” Addie says, mouth wide open. 

“You’re on crack,” I say. “As if that would ever happen.” 

“You don’t know,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. “Guys like you. You get around.” 

“Yeah,” I say, sarcastically with my eyebrows raised. 

“What?” she says. “You do. So, who’s to say you can’t win Sexy Professor over, too?”

“Uh, ‘cause he’s my teacher,” I say. 

“Who gives a shit?” she says. 

“It’s kinda hot, actually,” Addie chimes in. 

“You guys are stupid,” I say. “I’m not going for your stupid dare.” 

“Whatever, you’re no fun,” Amelia says. 

Addie gives me a look. “Heard you two kissed last night.” 

I frown. “We did not.”

“Yeah,” Amelia says. “We kinda did. You grabbed me a kissed me. You always do, when you’re that drunk. You’ll seriously kiss anyone. It’s not cute, April.” 

“Whatever,” I say. “I was having fun. You asked me to come, so I did.” 

“I didn’t ask you to get shitfaced,” she says. 

I scoff. “Coming from you, that’s funny.” 

“Guys, come on,” Addie says. “Don’t fight. I wasn’t trying to start shit.” 

“No, but it’s true,” I say. “She tells me I can’t let loose, but it was her ass we’d have to scrape off the floor our  _ entire _ freshman and sophomore year.” I narrow my eyes at her. “It wasn’t cute, Amelia.” 

“We’re older now,” she says. “Partying doesn’t mean blacking out and sucking face with a pair of siblings ‘til I literally have to tell you to go to bed. I’m not your mom.” 

“Yeah, I know,” I say, standing up from the couch. “But right now, you’re being a real bitch. And you guys have that in common.” I storm up the stairs to my room and slam the door, feeling attacked by this whole day. 

I take off my clothes and get in the shower, simply standing under the jet long enough so the alcohol washes out of my system. I turned the heat as high as it would go, so by the time I come out my skin is red and stinging, but it feels better than the dirty grunge that the party left on me last night. 

I lie in bed in my towel, reading, when there’s a soft knock on my door. 

“I’m too tired for this,” I mutter. 

“It’s just me,” Addie says, then slips in. “Hey.” 

I put my knees down. “Hey.” 

“She’s not mad at you,” she says. “She’s just kinda… I think she’s mad at the situation. It was supposed to be a small kick-back, and it turned into this big thing. And she felt out of control. You know how she gets when…” 

“Yeah,” I say. 

“So, I just don’t want you guys to fight.”

“She can’t tell me to come party, then get mad when I do,” I say. “She can’t shame me for that. I’ve had enough damn shame in my life.” 

“I know,” Addie says. 

I sigh and turn onto my side. “Sorry for getting sloppy,” I say. “I’ll try not to kiss like, everyone, next time.” 

That gets a laugh out of her. “Works for me,” she says. 

Later that night, I find Amelia in the kitchen and give her the same apology I gave Addison, and she gives me a hug from the side. I keep an arm around her shoulders and she keeps one around my waist, squeezing tight. 

“Don’t get in too deep with my brother,” she says. “He’s an asshole. I’m not kidding.” 

“I know,” I say. 

“For real,” she says. 

I laugh. “I know!” 

“I want you to find someone nice,” she says. “Someone who tries, who’s gonna like, work to make you happy. Not someone who comes to a party just to give you hickeys and shit. And fuck you when his dick is hard.” 

I pause for a moment. “Yeah,” I agree. 

“Anyway,” she says. “I still have my sights on Sexy Professor for you.” 

…

On Wednesday, I wake up early and spend extra care getting ready for my 8am Gender and Sexuality class. I wear high-waisted, dark jeans and a green tank top, flats on my feet for comfort. I’m not walking the runway, but I am trying to make an impression on Sexy Professor.

My hair is long. So long, it reaches the small of my back, which means it isn’t easy to manipulate and style. But I do my best with curling it into soft waves, and I spend time on my makeup and make sure not to rush. 

I try and keep my cool as I walk into the classroom, bag slung over my shoulder. I have all the books I need this time, and I sit in the front row. I also happen to be one of the only students in the room when Sexy Professor comes in. 

I fold my hands together, then unfold them. Cross my legs, then uncross. As he approaches the desk, I wipe my palms on my jeans and force the nervous lump out of my throat. 

It’s fine. I can handle this. 

Except, maybe I can’t. Because he’s wearing burgundy today with black dress pants, and I think I might die because of how attractive he is. Everything about him, even his wrists, is hot. 

I don’t let myself stare like last time, because I don’t want to be found out. Instead, I flip through the textbook in what I thought was a nonchalant manner, before he calls me out. 

“Interested?” he asks. 

I glance up and find him looking my way. Those eyes, which are more blue than green today, are trained on me. Just me. He’s talking only to me. 

“What?” I stammer, hand flat in the middle of the book. 

“The text,” he says, nodding to it. “You’re flipping through fast. You must be interested.” 

“Oh, I am,” I say, smiling. “Very much.” 

“Is today your first day?” he asks.

I’m confused for a moment, until I remember I must look much different now than I did on Monday. “Oh, no,” I say. “I was just… I… I was in the back last time. I came up to the front today.”

“Well, I’m glad,” he says, smiling with only a corner of his lips. “And anyway, welcome. To your second day.” 

“Thank you,” I say. “My name is April, by the way. April Kepner.” 

“Dr. Avery,” he says, pushing his sleeves up in the way that forces me to clench my thighs together. “I’m looking forward to working with you.” 

“Likewise,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. 

He addresses the class, but keeps his eyes on me when he speaks next.

“Let’s get started,” he says. 


	2. Chapter 2

**APRIL**

I’m sitting in the middle of my bed with books from Dr. Avery’s class surrounding me. It’s Saturday, but I’ve been poring through them, trying to soak up as much information as I can.

_The Handmaid’s Tale_ by Margaret Atwood is the first required reading. Following that, in no particular order is: _Middlesex_ by Jeffrey Eugenides, _Gender Outlaw: On Men, Women and the Rest of Us_ by Kate Bornstein, _The Second Sex_ by Simone de Beauvoir and _Undoing Gender_ by Judith Butler.

I finished _The Handmaid’s Tale_ already, and I am absolutely fascinated with it. It isn’t my first time reading it, being that I’m a women’s studies minor, but every time it gets more fascinating.

I want to be well-versed in the subject matter not only because I’m interested in it, but because I want to impress Dr. Avery come Monday and I know the answers to all the questions he poses. So, after I finish my initial reading, I flip back to the beginning with plans of starting again.

I’ve just passed the first chapter when my door comes open, and Addison appears. “Hey,” she says. “Derek’s here.”

I put the book down, shoving a bookmark in its spine. “He didn’t text me,” I say, sitting up.

She shrugs. “He’s downstairs. Should I send him up?”

“Sure,” I say, then clear the books off my bed and fold my legs in front of me.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, and Derek appears in my room moments later. “Hey, fireball,” he says, walking inside and sitting on my bed without being invited.

“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here? I mean, not like that. What are you up to?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says. “Thought I’d stop by and see you.”

I chuckle a little. “Are you horny, or something?”

“I’m always horny,” he says. “Is that even a question?”

I roll my eyes. “Well, _some_ of us were reading. For class.”

“Who?” he says, crawling closer. “You? Not you.”

“Yes, it was me,” I say, but lie back and comply with how he covers me. “Unlike you, I actually enjoy getting good grades.”

He kisses me once, and I smile through it. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it,” he says. “It’s just that I enjoy this more. I enjoy _you_ more.”

I smile again and hold the back of his neck, widening my thighs so he can fit between them. He explores my body with his hands, cold fingers slipping beneath the front of my shirt to hold my ribcage, running over it with one thumb.

“You’re cold,” I whisper.

“Then warm me up,” he replies, kissing me harder.

I match his fervor, arching my back so our torsos press together. He moves the hand on my ribcage higher and cups the underside of my breast, teasing me with the near-contact. When his thumb finally rubs over my nipple, through my bra, I gasp and open my mouth over his.

He moves lower and kisses my chin, then my neck, where he leaves a sloppy trail of saliva behind. When he gets to my collarbones, he bites down hard - too hard.

“Ow,” I say, crunching my shoulders to deter him. “That hurt.”

“Sorry,” he says, though it doesn’t sound genuine at all.

He returns to what he was doing and moves the collar of my shirt to the side so he can reach more skin. He leaves loud, aggressive hickeys on my neck and shoulders, and I don’t stop him. He likes to mark me, it’s just one of his things.

He tries to take my shirt off, but I don’t let him. I’m not stupid - I know that if my shirt comes off, it’s a slippery slope from there, to say the least.

“No, stop,” I say, inching away. “Derek, come on.”

“What?” he says, sitting up. I see the bulge in the crotch of his pants. “Seriously?”

“I don’t want to,” I say. “I was studying.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes too. “You’re such a tease,” he says.

“You like it,” I purr, resting on my knees and winding my arms around his shoulders from behind.

“It’s getting on my last fuckin’ nerve, is what it is,” he says. “You were supposed to put out by now. Aren’t you tired of just kissing?”

“Kissing you is nice,” I say. It’s not a lie. I do like kissing. I just don’t want to do anything more with him. I don’t know if that makes me a bad person, or not.

“Yeah, for a while,” he says. “But you’re not being fair when you get my dick hard, then tell me to stop.”

“I’m sorry…” I say, not knowing how else to respond.

He groans softly. “Whatever,” he says. “I just rolled today. Do you wanna smoke?”

I shake my head and reach for my book. “Not really,” I say. “I was reading.”

“Fine,” he says, getting up. “I’ll go see if my sister wants to. And you need to reevaluate whatever you think you’re doing with me, April. Because I could have any other girl. I don’t need to be waiting around for you. You’re acting like such a virgin.”  

“I…” I stammer. “No, I’m not. I just… I want things to be special between us.”

“Special was a month ago,” he says, lingering by the door. “And teasing me is fucked up. So, let me know what you decide.”

I fall onto my back without bidding him goodbye and open my book again. This time, though, I just stare at the pages with furrowed eyebrows, absorbing none of the text.

…

The next morning, I wake up extra early and contemplate the outfits I laid on my bed the night before. I stand there in a towel and try to decide between casual jeans and a cute t-shirt, or a skater dress with Converse.

I tie my long hair into a wet bun and try on both, turning every which way in the mirror. I take too long as I try to decide, which leaves me no time for breakfast and barely any time to pack my bag before I hurry out the door wearing the dress and sneakers.

I do my makeup on the short bus ride to campus. Even though it’s not yet 8am, today is a particularly hot day and I don’t want to get sweaty on the walk to Dr. Avery’s class.

I enter the air conditioned building and push my hair behind my shoulders, checking my mascara in a compact mirror. I check again once I sit down, knowing I’m being too vain for my own good, when I hear a voice over my shoulder.

“You look fine,” it says.

I spin around to see a boy I don’t recognize. “Uh, thanks,” I say, flashing an awkward smile.

“Did you do the reading for today?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I finished the book.” I don’t bother telling him I read it twice over.

He raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Wow, nice,” he says. “I thought we were only supposed to get to the middle.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I say, and it comes out more pompous than I meant for it to. “I saw it on the syllabus. Maybe you’re right, though. I just… I really liked it. I couldn’t stop.”

He smiles. “I feel you. I’m Owen, by the way. I think I’ve been to a couple of your house parties. You’re April Kepner, right? You live with Amelia Shepherd and Addison Montgomery?”

“I… uh, yeah,” I say. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

“Well, there’s always a ton of people there,” he says. “You guys throw crazy parties. They’re great.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling.

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Avery says, and his voice surprises me. I hadn’t seen him come in. I flip around in my seat immediately without giving Owen a proper goodbye, and focus my attention on the man at the front of the room.

Today, his sleeves are already rolled up and he’s wearing light blue. His biceps bulge as the fabric of his shirt is stretched over them, and I’m able to see every subtle ripple. When he turns around, there’s a sweat stain on the small of his back that’s barely noticeable. Probably no one else in the class sees but me. I have my eyes trained on him; there’s not much I miss.

“It’s a hot one out there today,” he says, eyes on me as the rest of the class chats amongst themselves.

“I know,” I say. “I took the bus.”

“You’re smart,” he says, nodding while flipping through his lesson book. “I biked. Wrong decision.”

I chuckle softly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I try desperately to think of something else to say, but nothing comes. And then, it’s too late. Class begins.

“So, on Wednesday I asked you to finish with the book by today,” he says. “ _The Handmaid’s Tale_. Be honest with me. How many of you actually did the reading?”

I raise my hand casually, then look around the room. Only a few other people join me in doing so.

“Unsurprising,” Dr. Avery says. “But thanks for the honesty. Anyone have any viable excuses? Was there a death in the family, you had to work a double shift, or you got blackout drunk on Friday night and forgot about it until Sunday?”

Uncomfortable laughter circles the room.

“Right,” he says. “Anyway, for those of you who participated. What are your thoughts? Why do you think I made you read this specific book for this class?”

I let a moment pass, not wanting to seem overeager. I glance around the room and see no one else is going to answer the question, so I let myself do it. I raise my hand, and Dr. Avery makes eye contact before nodding in my direction.

“April,” he says.

My whole body tingles when he says my name.

“Um,” I say, then clear my throat. “Well, this class is based around gender and sexuality. And the whole basis of the story was centered around the fact that women’s bodies were being used as political instruments. Nothing was really theirs anymore. They had no agency or control. And honestly, that’s just a heightened version of today’s reality, with how much the government is trying to take away from us with the defunding of Planned Parenthood and stuff like that.”

I bite my lower lip, not feeling very confident in my answer. I hope it was good enough.

“Very good,” he says. I fill with warm pride, knowing I pleased him. “Why don’t you expand on that? Give me more.”

“Okay…” I say, gathering my thoughts. “The society of Gilead was created because of dramatically decreased birth rates. Everyone was going sterile, so they gathered the fertile women and put them to work. By the way, this puts the weight of the blame on the women’s shoulders, which comes into play when Luke is the one who’s not fertile,” I say. “It wasn’t Offred’s fault, but she was blamed. The goal of the society is to control reproduction. The handmaids aren’t human in the eyes of the families they work for. They’re treated simply like a pair of ovaries and a womb, that’s it. Society wants to take away women’s individuality in order to make them docile carriers of the next generation. Carriers of babies they won’t get to claim as their own, but ones that they’ll have to care for. It’s stripping these women of a quality that should be a choice, and now it’s forced upon them. Like I said, it’s not much different than what’s happening today. Conservatives want to take away Planned Parenthood, but they’d rather die than support a single mother on welfare. Society hates treating women like humans.”

“And why do you think that is?” he asks, a bit challengingly.

“I…” I say, mouth hanging open. “I don’t know,” I say, but then counter back. “Why do _you_ think so?”

He shoots me an amused expression. “Because the white male has a superiority complex much like a raccoon trapped in a corner,” he says. “The closer you get, the more likely you are to take its power, which means it becomes threatened. And the raccoon, or in this case, Mike Pence, will lash out and try to kill whatever’s threatening that ever-so-delicate power.” He gives me another look, but breaks away to scan the class. “Would you agree?”

The 90 minutes pass incredibly quickly, and it consists mostly of Dr. Avery and I volleying back and forth with questions and answers about the book. I’m seemingly the only one who absorbed as much as I should have, and it’s easy to see he’s impressed. And because of that, I’m walking on air when time is up.

When class ends, Owen taps me on the shoulder. “You sure know your shit about _The Handmaid’s Tale_ ,” he says, laughing.

“Yeah,” I say, matching the smile.

“Would you wanna go grab-”

“April,” I hear, then turn my head quickly to the source of the voice - it’s Dr. Avery, standing behind his desk. “May I have a word with you?”

“I gotta go,” I say to Owen, breathily. “See you Wednesday.”

He purses his lips and gives me a curt nod, then ascends the stairs to leave the lecture hall. Now, it’s empty save for me and the professor.

“Hi,” I say, backpack over one shoulder. I’m not sure what else to say. The look on his face is so serious; he has me wondering if I did something wrong. Maybe he didn’t like the way I took control of the classroom, and he’s about to tell me I should share the floor. I would understand if he said that, but I tell myself not to freak out.

“I couldn’t help but notice how much of an interest you took in the novel,” he says. “Quite obviously, more than anyone else in the class. Seeing as you actually read, and took the time to analyze it.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to control my blush. “Yeah. It’s a favorite of mine. This isn’t the first time I’ve read it, but I, uh… I actually read it twice.”

I have no idea why I told him that. But now that it’s out, I can’t put it back.

His eyes sparkle with a amusement. “Oh, really?” he says.

Butterflies flutter around in my stomach. “I guess I care a little too much,” I say, shifting my weight to one hip.

“No such thing,” he replies smoothly.

“If you say so,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear.

He looks at me for a brief moment before speaking again. He says, “I wondered if you’d be interested in a bit of extra reading,” he says. “I have a couple books I think you’d appreciate.”

I think of all the reading I have yet to do for other classes. But as I’m standing here with those seafoam eyes on me, those biceps bursting from the periwinkle shirt, none of that reading matters. Plus, I want him to keep offering me things. If I decline, it’ll seem like I’m shutting him down. And that’s the last thing I want. I want to impress him.

“Sure,” I say. “Of course. I’d love that.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Come with me. They’re in my office. It’s just down the hall.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, and follow his lead out of the classroom.

We walk side-by-side down a narrow hallway with office doors lining the walls. “Tight squeeze,” he says, smiling modestly at me. “You get used to it.”

“It’s not too bad,” I say.

He smiles again and unlocks the door when we get to the one that belongs to him. While I watch him go inside and set down his things, I stay hovering by the doorway with my hands wrapped around my backpack straps.

He glances up while bent over his desk. “You can come in, you know,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

I take a few steps inside but don’t bother pulling out a chair. I’m frozen, so intimidated by being in a small space with him. I don’t want to be, but it’s hard to ignore the crazy things my body is doing. While I watch his fingers rifle through the books on the bookshelf, I bite my lip and force myself to look away.

I clench my thighs together for good measure. Watching him in the cavernous lecture hall is arousing enough; this is nearly debilitating. And the silence is deafening.

“I like your office,” I finally say, if only to break it.

He glances around. It’s decorated in a mod fashion, very sleek and minimalist.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re very tidy,” I say, swiping a finger along the surface of his desk.

He chuckles. “To a fault, maybe.”

“Maybe,” I respond, under my breath.

“Ah, here they are,” he says, and picks two books from the shelf. _A Room of One’s Own_ by Virginia Woolf, and _Sister Outsider_ by Audre Lorde. I’d love for you to read these, take them in, then come back and tell me how similar and different they are from each other. Take your time, let them soak. I think you’ll appreciate what they have to say. Take notes, get angry. Let them inside you.”

_Let them inside you_. I shouldn’t take that sentence in the way I do, but I can’t help it.

“Okay,” I say, then take the books as he hands them to me. Our fingers brush, and a bright, powerful electricity shocks through me. He shoots me a look, and for a moment I’m sure that means he felt it, too.

But then, I scold myself for being stupid.

I hold the books against my chest, feeling the closest to him yet. I’m holding something of his, he’s letting me take something personal home. He wants to know my thoughts.

“What are your office hours?” I ask, biting my lower lip. “Just so… I know when I can come in and talk to you.”

He looks at me, holding heavy eye contact. “Tuesday and Thursday afternoons,” he says. “But for you, that door is always open.”

I practically jolt forward with emotion and heat, but I keep my composure. For right now.

“Okay,” I say, quietly. “I’ll remember that.”

“Please do,” he says.

I turn to walk out the door and feel his presence following me. When I get to the hall, just a short walk away, I look over my shoulder and grin.

“Thank you for the books,” I say, running my pointer finger along the spine of one.

“Anytime,” he says.

I start down the hall until he stops me. “And April,” he says. I turn back again. “Enjoy.”

…

I’m sitting at the dining room table that night poring over _A Room of One’s Own_ when Addison comes home from work. She’s a barista at the Starbucks on campus, and she always comes in smelling like coffee.

“Hey, Bean,” I say, using the nickname I gave her when she started there two years ago.

“Fuck you,” she says, laughing. She pretends not to, but she likes the nickname. “What’re you reading?”

I show her the cover.

“Okay, baby feminist,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “I know more about feminism than you ever will,” I say. “Miss bio major.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, drinking orange juice out of the carton. “You’re only reading that because you’re hot for teacher.”

I widen my eyes at her. “Shut up. I am not.”

“Yeah, sure,” she says. “Then, can I see it?”

“No,” I say, protecting the book from her.

“Why not?”

“Why do you want to?”

“I just wanna look at it,” she says. “You’re making yourself look more guilty than not right now, by the way.”

“Fine,” I say, handing it over.

She marks my place and opens the front cover, nodding as she goes. “Property of J. Avery. Wouldn’t you know?”

“Give that back, you bitch,” I say, smirking.

“What’s his first name?” she asks, walking back to the kitchen. “What name are you gonna be moaning in the throes of ecstasy? Jason? Jeffrey? Jonathan?”

“Jackson,” I say.

She wiggles her eyebrows. “That’s sexy.”

“I know.”

After she makes a sandwich, she leaves to eat dinner in her room. I sit at the table until the rest of the house goes quiet and dark, and my eyes sting by the time I finish the book. But it’s not enough, I need to read the second one, too.

I move to my room for that. I lie on my bed with the intent to finish it in the same way I had the first, but I fall asleep with _Sister Outsider_ open on my chest.

But the next day, between my two other classes and after I get done for the day, I spend all my time with that book. I rush through my other homework without giving it the attention it needs, and give that attention to what Audre Lorde has to say. By the time I finish, I regret thinking I didn’t have the time or energy for these books.

I’m overflowing with information during Wednesday’s class, anxious for it to end so I can talk to him. Without waiting for everyone else to leave, I hurry from my desk to his so I can start talking.

“I loved the books,” I say. “I have so many thoughts. I don’t even know where to start.”

He smiles while packing up his things, carefully sliding his Macbook into a messenger bag.

“First of all, the black and white perspectives are so vastly different. I know - oh, wait.” I stop myself. “I’m sorry. You don’t have office hours today. You probably have stuff to do. I’m sorry, I’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“No,” he says, locking eyes. “I’d like to discuss them with you now. I hoped you’d finish by today; I was anxious to hear your thoughts. I just didn’t want to rush you. Let’s go to my office.”

I match pace with him while we walk the same path as last time, holding the two books between my hands. When we get to his office, I don’t linger outside the door. I walk right in and pull out a chair, sitting across from him.

I swipe my hair over my shoulder, being as it easily gets in my way. I regret it instantly, though, because Dr. Avery’s eyes flit to my neck that I know is covered in the hickeys Derek gave me. Without being covert at all, I put my hair back where it was. I don’t exactly know why, but I don’t want him seeing those.

I clear my throat, trying to pretend that never happened.

“So, the difference of perspectives in these two books absolutely floored me,” I say. “Did you do that on purpose?”

He leans back in his rolling chair, giving me a look that I don’t need an explanation for.

“I thought so,” I say.

“You’re a smart girl, April,” he says. “I knew you’d figure it out. Tell me what you noticed.”

“A lot of things,” I say. “I read them so fast, though. Is it okay if I keep them for a bit longer, so I can read them again?”

“Of course,” he says, eyes warm. “Now, talk to me.”

“Woolf tries so hard to remove herself from the narrative,” I say. “She never gets mad, she doesn’t really let herself, I don’t know, feel. She writes about the empathy or sympathy, I guess, she feels for other people. Like, when she was talking about what an awful life William Shakespeare’s sister had. That was so rough. I never knew that, I couldn’t believe it.”

He gives me a look. “Life isn’t always what it seems on the surface.”

“So true,” I say. “But I mean… Woolf separates herself from the narrator. And Lorde does exactly the opposite. She lets herself feel everything, she’s so in-tune with her emotions. I felt her anger through the pages; it was so raw and eye-opening. It was… it was invigorating, and infuriating.”

“I hoped you would feel that way,” he says. “Let me ask you something. Who do you relate to more?”

“Me?” I ask, wide-eyed.

“You,” he echoes.

“Well, I don’t know if I could answer to either of them,” I say. “I think that’d be a little ludicrous. It’s-”

“I don’t,” he says, calm as ever. “Go ahead and answer.”

I lick my lips slowly, letting out a shallow breath as we watch each other, gauging the next move. My heart hammers inside my chest, so hard I’m convinced he must be able to see the beat through the fabric of my shirt.

“I don’t know,” I say, timid at first. “I’m tempted to say Virginia Woolf. Maybe.”

“Take away the skin color, and what do you get?” he prompts. “Look deeper. Stop seeing the surface.”

“But skin color is such an important-”

“I’m fully aware,” he says. “But that’s not the question I’m asking you to answer, is it?”

“No,” I say, muscles tensing. “I guess not. Then, I guess I’d have to say Audre Lorde. There was so much about her that I aspire to be. She was so confident in everything she is, and she let herself feel. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more like that. And the quote… her quote. She said, ‘women are powerful and dangerous,’” I say. “I’m powerful.”

His eyes flash. Now, he’s the one to lick his lips when he says, “And dangerous.”

My breath catches and I’m not sure how to respond, or if I even need to. The air in this small room is charged and hot, and I don’t want that to change. Without physical contact, I’ve never been so turned on in my life. By simply looking at the man across from me, there’s a wet heat pooling in my core. I fidget because of it, trying to quell the buzzing inside.

“I have a couple more I’d like to pass by you,” he says. “To cultivate your reading list, in a way.”

“Okay,” I say, standing up as he does.

“ _Borderlands / La Frontera_ by Gloria Anzaldua, and _The Feminine Mystique_ by Betty Friedan,” he says, then points to the latter. “This one kicked off the second wave of feminism in the United States. You’ll notice the scope is limited, but the content was germane to its time. Keep that in mind while you read. And this one,” he says, pointing to the former. “Deals with the subject being multiracial. I’m not sure if you’re bilingual, but even if you’re not, you should give it a try. It’s worth it.”

I take the books and nod slowly.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

I smile breathily. “Fine, everything’s fine,” I say. “It’s just my workload. I want to read these really bad. I have a lot of other things to do, but I don’t want to disappoint you, I guess. I want to read these, and reread the others, and discuss them, but…”  

He touches my arm. His hand comfortingly holds my bicep, fitting around the entire thing. I’m being branded; he doesn’t move his hand away when I gasp.

“Don’t worry about rushing,” he says, unmoving. “Take all the time you need. You don’t have to try and please me.”

I chuckle under my breath. That’s easier said than done.

“We’re not on a schedule,” he says. “When you finish, you finish.”

“Okay,” I say, and he moves his hand away. Immediately, I wish he hadn’t. “Thanks for letting me come talk, even though these aren’t office hours.”

“You don’t have to worry about those,” he says. “I told you that.”

“I know,” I say, then pause. “Thanks for these.”

He reaches across the divide and takes my wrist. “You’re welcome,” he says quickly, then notices my eyes flit down to his hand. When that happens, he jolts away like he was the one burned.

There’s a flash of a moment where we just stare at each other, waiting for something to happen. But nothing does, because his phone rings and splits the air in half, tension oozing out like melted butter.

“I gotta take this,” he says, glancing at the Caller ID.

“Of course,” I say. “I don’t mean to keep you. I… uh, I’ll see you next class.”

“You will,” he says, and I leave the office feeling more than I’ve ever felt.

…

I don’t stop thinking about Dr. Avery for the whole bus ride home. And when I walk into the townhouse, I don’t stop, either. I keep picturing his strong hands, the way one felt on my arm, the way one felt on my wrist. It’s obvious he wanted to keep touching me, but censored himself the second time.

Did he think what he was doing was wrong? _Was_ it wrong?

I don’t know and I don’t care. All I care about is the pulsing in the pit of my abdomen, tucked tight between my thighs, that I need to get rid of.

With Dr. Avery’s books in tow, I hurry up the stairs after nonchalantly checking if Addie and Amelia are in their rooms. Finding they’re not, I go into my own room and push the door shut behind me. After carefully depositing Dr. Avery’s books on my desk, I collapse onto my bed and don’t waste much time.

I close my curtains not only because I’m paranoid about my neighbors, but because I don’t want my innocent little plant watching me, either. I talk to her, so she’s become sentient in a way. And her watching me masturbate feels weird, so she gets covered up.

I don’t bother with taking my jeans off, I just unzip them. I smooth one hand down my stomach until I get to the waistband of my underwear, that of which my fingers sneak under to touch the skin that’s much warmer.

I sink two inside myself and let my knees fall open. I close my eyes and listen to my breathing, hearing it change and quicken when I use my middle finger to draw loopy, loose circles on my clit to tease myself. I don’t want to come fast, I want to come hard. And in order for that to happen, I have to take my time.

I think about Dr. Avery while I touch myself. I picture him in much less than what I’ve seen him in. I envision him shirtless, skin glistening, muscles bunching underneath. I picture his strong thighs, pretend I hear his voice rumbling low into my ear as he tells me all the dirty things he’s going to do to me.

“Oh,” I whimper, involuntarily.

My hips start working against my hand, partnering with its rhythm. I press down harder on my clit, rubbing tighter circles, using more force. I see Dr. Avery between my legs, mouth open, tongue inside me. I don’t know what oral feels like, but I imagine he’d be the best teacher.

I come as I think about it, how good he’d be, how attentive and skilled with his tongue, and the orgasm ripples throughout my entire body. Every nerve ending feels it, from my fingertips to my toes, and I’m panting by the time it’s over.

“Shit,” I whisper, then open one side of my curtains back up so my plant is on display again. “Sorry about that,” I say to her.

Before I have a chance to zip up my jeans, the door comes open and Alex appears.

“God!” I say, clambering to make myself decent. “Does anyone know how to knock around here?”

“No need,” he says. “Anyway, I waited ‘til you were done. Took you long enough.”

“Oh, my god,” I say, cheeks flaming.

“Don’t worry about it, A, we all do it,” he says. “Thought I’d give you a little privacy. Sounded like a nice session, and I’m not a total asshole.”

“But you have horrible timing,” I say, still mortified.

“I’d argue with that,” he says. “Anyway, what got you all hot and bothered that you couldn’t even come say hi?”

I screw up my face. “Number one, why are you asking me this? And number two, what are you doing in my house?”

“I was in Addie’s room,” he says.

“Why?” I ask. I hadn’t seen him, but admittedly I didn’t look too hard.

“Yeah, we’re kinda sleeping together,” he says. “Not sure if it’ll turn into anything, but it’s cool for right now. So, answer the question. Who’s got you all horny? Dere-Bear?”

I cringe. “No, and don’t call him that.”

“Aw, your guys’ dry-humping sessions aren’t as fulfilling as ours were, are they?” he asks, ribbing me.

“Shut up,” I say. “I’m gonna kill you.”

He laughs, and I shake my head. “Nah, I already know,” he says. “Don’t kill me. But Addie told me you’re hot for teacher.”

“What the…?” I say, eyes bugging out of my head. “Do I get any privacy around here? Any at all?”

“Apparently not,” he says. “But hey, it’s out of the bag now. Addie told me about the dare, too. Dude, when are you gonna tell them that you’re a...?”

“Don’t,” I say emphatically.

“Just because you pretend you’re not a virgin doesn’t make it true,” he says. “And you can’t hide it forever. They’re your best friends, or whatever. Why are you lying to them? Are you that ashamed? Because if you are, we can fuck right now. It’s no big-”

“Stop being an ass,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I know you just say shit like that so you don’t come off too nice.”

“I can’t have people knowing the real me,” he says, scoffing. “Come on, now. But seriously, are you gonna fuck your teacher?”

I shrug.

He scoffs again. “Okay, big-ass talker,” he says. “You won’t even sleep with someone on your level, your own age. What makes you think you’re gonna fuck this guy?”

“What do you mean ‘my level?’” I ask.

“There’s a weird split of power there,” he says, motioning with his hands. “And you’re gonna try to fuck with it. Literally. Seriously?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.”

He sighs, standing up. “Well, it’s your business. But I don’t wanna see you get your ass hurt, Kepner. Okay? So, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” I say.

“I know,” he says, eyeballing me. “But there’s a difference between being stupid and acting it. So, just remember that while this guy might be totally dreamy or whatever, don’t lose your fuckin’ head.”

“I won’t,” I say.

He keeps looking at me.

“What?” I say.

“Are you like, just horny for this guy, or what? Or is this a legit crush you’ve got going on?”

“Why do you wanna know?” I ask.

“Maybe because I’m your friend, I don’t know,” he says. “Quit being so defensive and just talk to me, damn it.”

I give in. “I like him,” I say. “He’s smart and he treats me different.”

Alex narrows his eyes. “He’s not grooming you like some _Lolita_ shit, is he?”

“How do you even know about that book?” I say.

“I’m smarter than you think,” he tells me.

I nod, impressed. “No, he’s not,” I say. “It’s not like that.”

“Well,” he continues. “Then what _is_ it like?”

I spend a long moment thinking, then find I can’t put it into words. Not yet. Not for Alex, at least. If I say too much, it feels like what Dr. Avery and I have is no longer kept just between us. And right now, that’s how I like it.

So, I keep my answer simple.

“I don’t know,” I say.


	3. Chapter 3

**JACKSON**

September turns into October, and the heat drifts from the air and turns it crisply cold. Instead of denim shorts and flannels, my students take to wearing jeans, scarves and light jackets. 

April has a specific burgundy one she always wears, never zipped all the way up. Usually, it’s paired with a chunky scarf, and her hair tied up in a bun. She barely ever wears it down, presumably because it’s so long. It must get in the way. 

Right now, it’s plaited into a French braid with pieces fraying from the sides. It’s the end of the day, it’s probably been in for hours. We’re sitting in my office - I’m done teaching and she’s done learning, but she’s busy dissecting a favorite of the new books I gave her,  _ The Color Purple _ by Alice Walker. 

“I mean, I totally get it,” she says. “This book is yet another example of how agency is so important for women, namely women of color, to attain. Right?” 

I look at her head-on. “Stop questioning yourself,” I say. “There’s no need to affirm your thoughts to make sure you’re correct. Speak confidently, with purpose. If I disagree, I’ll tell you.” 

She wets her lips. I watch her tongue move slowly, eyes desperately trying to find a place to land. 

“Okay,” she says, then places her hands on my desk. “Is that your way of telling me I’m always right?”

I smirk, I can’t help it. “Not exactly,” I say. 

“But basically,” she says, giggling.

Her laugh is something I want to bottle and save. She does it a lot, too. Not out of nervousness anymore, like in the beginning. Now, she’s comfortable enough to pull a few of the strings loose, let herself simply be around me.

I don’t concern myself with getting to the same level. It’s appropriate for a student to feel comfortable and free around their teacher, not so much the other way around. 

“But anyway,” she continues. “Celie developing her thoughts and feelings is crucial to the development of her sense of self. Her letters to God are her only outlet, but she finds her voice through them. And that’s the first step that needs to be taken, finding your voice, in any situation. With your voice, comes power. When you speak, people listen.” 

“Do you find that to be true?” I ask. 

She tips her head slightly. “Sorry?” 

I lean back a bit, folding my hands across my middle. “In your own life, regarding your own agency,” I say. “When you speak, do people listen?” 

Her eyebrows lower as she turns over what I’ve asked. 

“I-I don’t know,” she says. “It’s hard to answer that for myself.” She lifts her eyes up to meet mine, and she sets me ablaze. “How would you answer that question?” 

“People do tend to listen when I speak,” I say. “I’m a professor, after all.” 

“No,” she says. “I’m talking about me. When I speak, do you listen?” 

I sit up, nudging my glasses higher on my nose without breaking eye contact. “Of course,” I say. “There’s not a word of yours I miss.” 

Her cheeks blush a brilliant red, which isn’t unusual in the slightest. I’m fully aware of what I do to her, but I’ve done my best to keep her effect on me a secret.

She tucks stray hairs behind her ears with both hands, staring down at her lap. The book falls from it, and she bends to pick it up while trying to find the place she left off. 

“There’s also… um, in the book,” she stammers. “Beautiful examples of strong female relationships. Your class is about gender and sexuality, but you seem extra-focused on the subject of feminism.” 

“I am,” I say. “I think it’s very important for women to have a voice, and to be secure in that voice. Because, like you said, when a voice is heard, that’s when change starts to happen.” 

“And it has to start somewhere,” she finishes.

“Exactly,” I say. “And the books I’ve given you focus specifically on women of color, which I’m sure you’ve noticed.” 

“Of course I’ve noticed,” she says, forehead wrinkling. “For obvious reasons, and with due right. They’ve been silenced the longest, their voices need to be louder now than ever.” 

I nod slightly, more impressed with her by the day. With each passing moment, passing second.

“Correct,” I say. 

“You said you wouldn’t affirm me,” she says, cheekily.

“Not when you seek it out,” I say. “But always when you deserve it.” 

She bites her lower lip softly, teeth digging into the supple flesh. I cross my ankles and shift in my chair, begging my physical reaction to cool down. Everything about April is alluring, entrancing, desirable. Not only is she attractive beyond belief, she’s smarter than she gives herself credit for - and she already gives herself plenty of credit. Her mind is one to compete with mine, and I don’t find that often. She challenges me, which not only attractive, but arousing.

She clears her throat and tries to pick up her thoughts. 

“But about female friendships,” she says. “The women in this story fuel each other. They don’t tear one another down; they give each other courage to tell their stories and use their voices. They’re each other’s springboards and life rafts, while the male violence of the world tries to drown them.” She nods, encouraging herself. “And they’re so versatile, the relationships. Some are parental, some are mentorships, and some are sexual. And I think that speaks volumes to how women need to be seen, as capable of all these things. Together, we’re unstoppable. In fiction and nonfiction. They find their senses of selves through their sisters.” 

Silence cloaks the room, draping over our shoulders and coating our skin. Her eyes are restless, flitting about the room. But mine stay steady - fixed on her face - unmoving, nearly unblinking. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I know I talk a lot.” 

I narrow my eyes just slightly, studying her. “Don’t apologize,” I say, and I can tell my words surprise her. “I like listening to you. Don’t doubt yourself, April. What you have to say is worthwhile.” 

She smiles. Subtle at first, then so big it almost overtakes her small face. And that smile kills me.

“Thank you,” he says, swiping her knuckles across her eyebrow. “Coming from you, that means a lot.” 

“Coming from me?” I prompt. 

“Well, yeah,” she says. “You never say things you don’t mean. You choose your words so carefully.”

“I tend to do that, yes,” I say.

“You know, you can let loose around me a little,” she says. “I won’t tell.” 

Something flashes across her eyes with the latter part of the sentence, and it makes me question every value I’ve ever held. 

_ I won’t tell. _

I swallow and run my tongue over my teeth, mouth closed. Her body language is comfortable as she puts her elbows on the desk, braid resting behind her back to reveal an open face. Everything about her is soft and vulnerable, open and free. She’s everything I wish I could be, and she has the innate ability of making me feel like I can someday achieve it. 

“Let loose,” I say, then chuckle. “What’s that mean?”

“See?” she says, grinning. “A joke!” 

I roll my eyes lightly. “I’m capable of humor,” I say. “I’m not serious all the time.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she says. “We should talk about something else, other than books. Do you know how to do that?” 

“Now you’re just insulting me,” I say, enjoying our playful banter. 

There’s not a single other person in my life who I do this with. All of my colleagues are serious, my friends even more so. Inside my chest is a coil wound tightly, begging to be unspooled. I curse myself for getting my hopes up that she’ll be the one to do it. I can’t put that on April - she’s my student. That’s wrong. 

“Sorry, the insults come with spending time with me,” she says, shrugging and pushing her arms together. 

When she does that, her cleavage becomes more pronounced. I haven’t let myself look there, because I know how obvious it is. In a closed space like the one we’re in, I would never do that to any woman - let alone April - and make them uncomfortable. It’s uncalled for. But when she pushes her breasts together, something in her eyes tells me it’s deliberate. 

There’s a freckle in the dead center of her chest. She doesn’t wear necklaces, but I noticed it the first time she wore a V-neck shirt without a scarf. It’s not small, but not too big, either. It’s darker than the rest of her freckles, and I find it effortlessly beautiful. 

She bites her lower lip again, letting it pop out from her teeth with a sheen of saliva on it. What I wouldn’t do to be able to leap over this desk and kiss that lip, and many more parts of her, pressed up tight against the wall.

My breath hitches as I force myself to stop. It’s inappropriate, wildly so, and I can’t be thinking those things. Not while she’s in the room with me, not at all. She’s my student, and that’s it. 

“I wanna know more about you,” she says, bringing me back to earth. “Tell me things.” 

I blink in her direction, caught off guard. “There’s not much to tell,” I say. 

She rolls her eyes. “That’s the biggest lie ever,” she says. “You’re so mysterious. I bet there’s a lot I don’t know. A lot that nobody knows.” 

“And why would I tell you these things?” I ask. 

She shrugs, eyes sparkling. “I don’t know,” she says. “That’s for you to decide.”

“Well,” I begin, leaning back again. “What do you want to know?” 

“We’ll start off easy,” she says. “Where did you go to college?” 

“Stanford,” I say. “For undergrad. I got my master’s from UCLA and my doctorate from Princeton.” 

“Jesus,” she says. “That’s impressive.” 

“I’m very fortunate,” I say. “My family valued education above all else.” 

“So, by that you’re saying you have no debt,” she assumes, and she’s right. She knows it, too. “Makes one of us.”

“Debt isn’t unusual, or anything to be ashamed of,” I say. 

“It is when you have as much as I do,” she says. 

“Your parents didn’t help you?” I press, and I don’t find it inappropriate. She opened up floor on the subject.

“I don’t speak to my parents, or any of my family,” she says. “I haven’t since I came here.” 

“And why’s that?” I ask, concerned. 

She shrugs, then looks to her nails. “I don’t fit into their lives anymore,” she says. “And I don’t want to. They’re devout Pentecostals. Let me put it in perspective. I wore pants for the first time when I was 18, and it scared the hell out of me.” 

I’m not too educated on the different branches of Christianity, but I do know that Pentecostals don’t believe in their women wearing pants, only skirts.

“It’s still really hard for me to do stuff that’s easy for girls my age,” she says. “Like, cut my hair, for example. I’ve gotten trims, but that’s it. I’ve been growing this out since birth, because a woman’s hair is seen as her crowning glory, and also what keeps her modest. It’s not so much that I believe that, but it reminds me of them.” She makes a small sound in the back of her throat. “I hate my family, but there are things I still can’t let go of.”

Her face becomes more vulnerable, and her eyes glaze over with tears that she tries to hold back. She succeeds in blinking them away, and I can’t help but frown. It’s obvious there’s much more simmering beneath the surface, and that information had been begging to come out.

“Sorry for oversharing,” she mutters. 

“Don’t be,” I say. 

“I didn’t mean to make things awkward,” she says. 

“They’re not,” I say. “Your background is interesting. It helps to explain who you are, and how you hold yourself as a woman.” 

She lifts her head, empowered by the word ‘woman.’ It seems to remind her that she’s not the girl in the full-length skirt, bare-faced, following in the footsteps of all she’s ever known. She’s created her own path, cleared it herself, and is still finding her way. 

She’s done a hell of a job so far, that’s obvious. 

“What about you?” she asks. “What’s your tragic backstory?”

I adjust my glasses, knowing I can’t and won’t delve into the entirety of it. Not here, not ever, not with her. 

I want nothing more than to open up to April. She’s the first and only person I’ve ever felt this way towards, but it’s impossible. I show restraint, which I’ve grown to be skilled at, and paint over my past trauma, glazing it golden in order to forget. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say. 

“Come on,” she pushes. “Don’t tell me you had a perfect childhood, and an even more perfect adult life.” 

I shake my head. “Far from it. But doesn’t everyone have their fair share of trauma? Who am I to say mine is worse?” 

“There’s no comparing,” she says. “Just sharing.” 

I clear my throat, trying to figure out how to word this without freeing too much. Our relationship has to stay surface-level, though this conversation is pushing the envelope. I know that, I’m full aware, yet I can’t seem to steer us in another direction. 

“My dad left when I was ten,” I say. It’s much more complicated than that, grossly so, but I pretend it’s not. She doesn’t need to know, and I don’t need to share. “My mom raised me on her own after that. Before, too, really.” 

“That’s amazing,” April comments. “But I’m sorry about your dad.”

I shake my head. “She’s a strong woman,” I say. “She taught me everything I know.” 

“Are you guys still close?” she asks. 

“She died five years ago,” I say. 

“Oh,” April says, crestfallen. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” 

“No need,” I say. “She was old and tired. There was no tragedy or drama attached to it, it just happened. And now, she’s gone.” 

“So, you have no parents anymore,” she says. “And neither do I.” 

“Seems that way,” I say. 

She’s quiet for a moment, hands folded in her lap. “I have a plant named Liesel,” she says. “She’s stuck with me through thick and thin. I almost killed her over the summer, but I revived her.” 

I can’t help but laugh. I laugh louder than I have in a while, and her face lights up.

“What’s funny?” she asks.

“You,” I say, shaking my head. “Please, tell me you have friends, too.” 

“Of course I do,” she says, shrugging. “But sometimes, I like Liesel better.” 

“I can understand that,” I say, smiling softly. 

She sighs. “I’ve never met someone who doesn’t have any parents, either,” she says. “Some of my friends’ are divorced, but it’s not the same. Like, yeah, mine are still alive, but not really. They’re dead to me, so they might as well be dead in general. My friends can’t wrap their heads around that, and you can.”

I nod. Of course, I see where she’s coming from. And looking at her sitting across from me, small form folded into itself, I have the unrelenting urge to take care of her. In every sense of the word - like a significant other, like a girlfriend, like something more than this. 

But I shrug that feeling off when she adjusts the way she’s sitting, and the sleeve of her shirt falls to expose the creamy skin of her neck and clavicle. And dotting that skin are numerous hickeys, some bunched together, some sporadically placed, but present all the same. They’re aggressive and in various stages of healing, which tells me some are new and some old. Whoever gives them to her rebrands her frequently. 

My stomach toils with jealousy. I know it’s not right and I try to will it away, but it’s no good. 

I don’t know why she’d let down her guard and be so flirtatious with me when she’s already taken by someone else. Judging by the physical signs, her behavior is confusing, to say the least. And it’s not like I can openly ask about it. I wouldn’t, anyway. 

I try to shove it out of my mind. I respect April as a person, a woman, as a student and intellectual. I don’t need to view her in a sexual manner, anyway. It’s a good thing that she’s taken. It simplifies our relationship. 

I keep telling myself this in hopes that it will stick. 

…

We spend a lot of time together in the month of October. April comes my office almost every day. Sometimes for lunch, and we eat together. Sometimes for dinner, too. Most of the time, we discuss new reading I’ve given her, sometimes we talk about everyday life, and sometimes we sit across from each other in silence, doing our own work.

I find I get more done with her present. Because when my mind trails off and I glance up to see her, it finds its way again. She centers me. Looking at her makes me feel stable, grounded, sure. 

I dream about her more than I’d like to admit. I tell myself it’d be hard not to, give that we’re around each other so much, but in my heart of hearts I know it’s more than that. 

I don’t have someone in my life to vent to, not that I would about this subject, anyway. But on some days, it eats me alive. 

Some nights, like tonight, when I’m alone in my big apartment overlooking the city, my home feels emptier than it should. I can practically see her on the couch next to me, curled against my side. Or resting on the other end, drifting off with her feet in my lap.

It gets worse in bed. My thoughts find the freedom to roam anywhere they please, and they always find their way to April. We’ve talked about plenty of things, but haven’t broached the subject of significant others. We’ve avoided it for so long that it’s clearly conscious at this point. I keep telling myself it’s because discussing those matters with a student would be inappropriate, but I’m fully aware of that lie. 

She knows me better than anyone else, in just under two months. We’re past the point of an appropriate teacher/student relationship, or even mentor/mentee. We’ve knocked down plenty of other walls. It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable in asking her about her potential boyfriend, it’s that I don’t want to know the answer. 

Since I noticed them, the hickeys have faded without new ones replacing. But in reality, that doesn’t mean much. She might’ve noticed my eyes and told her boyfriend to lay off her neck. 

I don’t know her intent with me. It’s hard to decipher when one minute she’s giving me bedroom eyes across the desk, and the next she’s throwing playful insults my way. I want to say she’s flirting, but maybe that’s just the way she acts. It’d be wrong to assume.

She’s my student. She’s my fucking student. 

I can’t be feeling the way I am.

…

“Dr. Avery!” I hear, just as I’m coming out of the hallway leading from my office. I turn around casually and see April bounding my way, hair bouncing behind her. 

It looks like waves of fire. Rarely do I see it down, so I soak it in. 

“Hey,” she says, once she catches up. “Are you leaving?” 

I am. I got all the work done that I needed to, and I had been subconsciously waiting for her, but she hadn’t shown. 

“I’m sorry, I wanted to catch you before you left,” she says. “But I had a paper to write.” 

“I told you, requirements come before this,” I say. “This is extra.” 

“I know,” she says. “But it’s more important to me than anything required. You know that.” 

We smile at each other. It’s something we’ve gone over plenty of times. 

“I don’t like that I missed out on talking to you,” she says, clasping her hands together at her waist. “I don’t know if this is weird, or what… but would you want to get coffee? Right now? I’m about to fall over, and I could use some energy.” 

I pause for a mere second, but she cuts in again. 

“You don’t have to say yes,” she says. “It was just a suggestion, since you’re already done in your office. Or, we don’t have to talk today at all. That’s fine with me. You’re probably busy, and we can stick to meeting at school. That’d be fine. It’s cool. It’s-” 

“I’d love to,” I say, calmly. “Do you have a specific place in mind?” 

Her face lights up. Mine does, too, but only on the inside. 

“I really like Plein Air,” she says. “It’s not far from here.” 

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s walk.” 

As we travel down the sidewalk, paranoia sets in. Surely, people’s eyes are on us and surely, the age difference is visible. Out of the classroom, the professor/student relationship isn’t obvious, but the years still sit between us. I can’t help but wonder what people are thinking, then feel baffled with myself. I never think like this. I don’t usually care what people think, but now I can’t seem to stop obsessing over it. 

I don’t want her to fixate on it, though, like I am. I don’t want anything to happen that will make her self-conscious. 

“I like the place we’re going to because it’s quiet,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “And really clean.” 

“Quiet and clean are two of my favorite things,” I say. 

She shoots me a playful look. “Then you’d hate my townhouse,” she says, chuckling. “I rescind my dinner invitation.” 

I volley the same expression back to her. “Too bad,” I play along. “I was going to bring bruschetta.” 

“Too bougie,” she says. “Tone it down, rich boy.” 

I can’t remember the last time someone called me a boy. It lights something inside, excites me in a way. She’s so fresh, so unexpected, that I barely know how to handle her and the things she does. She always surprises me. 

“Alright, then,” I say. “I’ll bring PBR.” 

“Come on!” she exclaims, then smacks my arm. “I have a little more class than that.” 

I laugh along with her for a few moments before we quiet down again. We walk through the sleepy streets, the air chilled with mid-autumn, and I find our pinkies brushing every few steps. 

It happens more than once. Then, it happens so much that I have reason to believe it’s not an accident from either of us.

Charged energy wafts from her body in waves. It’s so strong I almost feel it through the air, so when I make my next move I’m barely nervous at all. I don’t have much reason to be.

I take her hand quickly. I don’t bother hesitating, because that will only make things awkward. Instead, I do it swiftly and with intent, so she can be sure it was no slip of the hand, quite literally. 

Her fingers freeze for a moment, but then meld into mine like they were meant to fit there. I contemplate not acknowledging it, but that’s much too juvenile. And nothing leading up to this point has been juvenile, so I don’t want to start now.

“Is this okay?” I ask, turning my head to look at her. 

“Yes,” she says, then clears her throat. “Yes. It’s perfect.” 

I smile to myself, facing forward again as we finish the walk. When I see the cafe’s sign in the distance, I dread getting closer because that will mean I have to let go of her hand. 

But I do, so I can hold the door open.

“Thank you,” she says, and in the fresh light I see her cheeks are pink. 

“Of course,” I say, then follow her in. 

We might’ve talked about a million things, sitting across from each other in that quaint little coffee shop. That night, we might’ve solved world hunger, discovered a cure for cancer, ended all major evils in the world. But I wouldn’t know, because I don’t remember a thing that was said.

Instead, I’m too focused on our hands intertwined on the surface of the table, the centerpiece between us. As she talks, rambling about things I can’t comprehend, her thumb strokes my skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My palm doesn’t sweat, and neither does hers. Somehow, it’s like we’ve been doing this for ages. 

I’m on a different level once our time in the cafe ends. I know we have to part ways, I have work to do and so does she, but the last thing I want to do is leave her. Though I know I’ll see her tomorrow and the day after, and many to follow after that, I don’t want to spend a moment without seeing her face.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she says, as we leave. I had bought both of our drinks, insisted on doing so. She promised she would buy next time, though we both know I won’t let her. 

“You’re welcome,” I say, and my eyes drift to her lips before I have a say in the matter. But just as quickly as they’d strayed, they dart back up. 

I can’t be looking at her lips. I shouldn’t be thinking about holding her hand again, touching her, holding her. 

April is my student. 

She laughs a little, shaking her head and dropping her chin to her chest. 

“What?” I say. 

She looks back up, then rolls her eyes to the sky and keeps them there. “I don’t wanna go,” she admits, and by the way she says it I can tell she finds herself silly. 

I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t know where to send this night, this interaction. It could go so many ways, and I’m not ready for a single one of them. But yet, simultaneously, I’m ready for them all. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, not playing into my emotions. 

Had I left myself come loose, I would’ve agreed and offered to extend the night by inviting her to my place. I have no doubt she would’ve accepted. I can’t let myself think where the night would’ve headed after that, though. I have to retain some control. 

“Tomorrow,” she says, solidifying it. “Coffee?” 

“What, you’re tired of my cramped office?” I ask, knowing how she likes it when I joke. 

And right on cue, her eyes twinkle. “You’re funny,” she says. “I liked coming here with you. So tomorrow, same place?” 

I nod. “Same time.” 

…

Plein Air becomes our hangout of sorts. Instead of the closed quarters of my office with its stagnant air, we’re allowed to be ourselves in the cafe. Since it’s off campus, it doesn’t feel as connected to the university, which settles my nerves a bit.

I don’t hold the same urgent bundle of anxiety that someone will walk by and wonder what we’re doing. When we’re out in the world, we’re just us. Two people who match intellectually and have extremely stimulating conversation.

That doesn’t mean I stop having inner turmoil with myself. I only hold her hand when she initiates it, and I never go for anything more. She doesn’t, either, because I’m sure she’s waiting for me to make the first move.

And I promised myself I wouldn’t.

The hand-holding didn’t feel like a mistake, but since the night it happened I’ve been wondering if it was. It crossed a line, there’s no doubt about that. But given the chance, I’m not sure if I would take it back. I know I should, but something keeps me doing so. 

It’s the middle of November now, and it’s snowing. April is busy with finals for other classes, so she hasn’t been reading for me. I’m somewhat grateful for the break, too, because it’s nice to simply be with her and talk about normal things. 

“What will you do for Thanksgiving?” I ask. “Since you’re not going home.”

Since she opened up to me the first time, I haven’t learned much more about her family. It’s a subject she stays very closed off on, and I can’t say I blame her. I’m in the same boat. 

“Stay here,” she says, sipping her latte. “A few of my friends are, too. What will you do?” 

“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “Sometimes, I volunteer at the soup kitchen.” 

Her eyes soften. “You’re so kind,” she says. “I should do that.” 

“I’ve never been a huge fan of Thanksgiving, anyway,” I say. “I like Halloween.”

“Halloween?” she says, eyebrows raised. “Not Christmas?” 

“Christmas is lonely,” I say, and it’s the truth. 

The corners of her mouth turn down. “It doesn’t have to be,” she says. 

My stomach twists. I don’t know if she meant it in the way I took it, but it doesn’t matter. I would love nothing more than to have her by my side for Christmas morning; we could stay in bed all day and make love until it wasn’t Christmas anymore. 

My dreams about her have shamefully become more and more erotic with the ample time we spend together. What started out as fantasies of kissing her turned into fantasies of pleasuring her and being pleasured in return. I’m not proud whatsoever, but there are some things I have trouble controlling. Where my mind goes is one of those things. 

“It always has been,” I say.

She reaches across the table. “I mean… I could make sure it’s not lonely for you,” she says, and my brow furrows. This is the first time she’s ever spoken so outright, so forward. She takes my hand and looks deep into my eyes, hers smoldering. “And if you want, you could unwrap me like a present on Christmas morning. A gift just for you, Jackson.”

All the blood in my body rushes to my groin, and I clamber up from the table. There was a line we’d been toeing, and she just threw herself over it. 

“I… um…” I stutter, clearing my throat uncomfortably. I’m never at a loss for words, and she’s rendered me speechless. My brain flatlines.

“I’m sorry-” she says, but I cut her off with a flat hand. 

“It’s fine,” I say. 

She’s never used my first name before. I can’t explain what it did to me. I know it can’t continue, though. I can’t keep doing this; the reigns won’t hold forever. At some point, I’m going to lose control. That can’t happen. 

“You can’t…” I begin, trying to find my footing. “You can’t say things like that, April. You can’t behave like…” I close my eyes to find center. “You’re my student.” 

She physically recoils, like my words were a smack to the face. I feel the guilt from that instantly. 

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, her voice bordering on tears.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You just need to know. This can’t continue. You and I, whatever this is, it has to stop.” 

I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, and she stays seated without responding. 

“I should go,” I say, which is obvious. 

There’s no way I’d be able to stay after the scene I just made. But it was a long time coming. Nothing could come to fruition with what we were playing at. It was pointless and dangerous; it could get us both in hot water, for very different reasons. 

I’m not the type of person she needs to be with, anyway. There’s no denying the wild attraction between us, but it’s something I can grow to ignore. There’s no feeding into it; that’s not an option. 

“Goodbye, then,” she says, eyes round and mistrusting. 

“It’s not anything against you,” I say, inching away from the table. 

She turns her chin, angling her face so her hair falls in front of it and I can’t see her anymore. I don’t bother with a goodbye, it would just make things worse. So, I take the last option and take what’s left - I leave.

…

I don’t sleep that night. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, berating myself for hurting her. It’s obvious I did. I know declining her advances was the right, mature, adult thing to do, but my gut doesn’t agree. 

I can’t get her eyes out of my head. So wounded, so betrayed. That was the last thing I wanted, though I should’ve expected as much. I’d been playing along until the very last second, when I turned on her. I realize I wasn’t being fair, and she deserves a heartfelt apology. That is, if she’ll take one. 

I head to class early the next day with enough time to hopefully smooth things over. I stand at the front, in my usual spot, and wait for April to come in. She’s usually one of the first, so we can have a morning chat. But that’s not the case today.

She’s not the first student, the fifteenth, or the last. In fact, today, she doesn’t show up at all. 


	4. Chapter 4

**APRIL**

I never thought I was the type of person to cry openly on the bus, but I can’t say that anymore.

After Dr. Avery left me sitting alone in Plein Air, I couldn’t lift my head. I don’t know how long I stayed slumped over, but when I sat up and saw the world had continued turning without me, I started weeping. I didn’t try to hide it. 

It didn’t stop as I blustered down the sidewalk, or paid the fare to get on the bus. Not when I sat facing forward, body trembling, making audible sounds. I felt people’s eyes on me, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t pull myself together. 

I’m still crying when I get off the bus, wiping hastily at my eyes as I ascend the front steps of the townhouse. I’m not quiet by any means, I can barely catch my breath, and this won’t stop anytime soon. Once I start crying, the end is usually nowhere in sight. 

I’m loud when I come in the door, hiccuping and whimpering to myself, and it catches Amelia’s attention from the living room. 

“April Flower?” she asks, voice soft and worried. “Is that you? Are you crying?”

I wipe my nose and try to compose myself. I’m not capable of answering questions right now. 

“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice is wobbly and pitchy. It’s way too obvious. 

Amelia gets up from the couch and appears in the doorway as I’m struggling with removing my boots. “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asks. 

“I said, I’m fine,” I say, sniffling still. My left boot won’t come off, no matter how hard I yank on it. 

“You’re crying…” 

“It’s nothing,” I say, hopping around. 

“You can talk to me,” she says. 

“I’m perfectly fine!” I shout, then rip off my boot with great force and throw it at the wall. “I’m going to bed.” 

Her eyes burn into my back as I go up the stairs to my room, but she doesn’t follow. I’m grateful for that as I slam the door and throw myself onto my bed, feeling worthless and stupid, along with every other horrible emotion there is to feel. 

I’ve never been this hurt or this humiliated. I know I shouldn’t have been so forward or said what I did, and I’m not sure why it came out. I was caught up in the moment, and genuinely believed the next step was begging to happen. That he was waiting for me to make the move so he could reciprocate. That’s how the last few weeks have gone, and I had no reason to believe this would be different. 

But he pulled the rug out from under me. The way he looked at me after made me feel sick, like he was appalled I’d say such a thing. In that moment, I was as tiny as an insect under a microscope. His presence loomed over me, perpetuating the feeling.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I didn’t think he would abruptly reject me, and erase the friendship we’ve spent months building in less than a minute. It’s all gone now, wrecked and ruined. I can’t help but blame myself. I pushed it too far, and no matter how surely I thought otherwise, he hadn’t been on the same wavelength.

But we held hands all the time. And the very first time we did it, he initiated it. So, what did that mean?

I’ve never been in a relationship, friendship or otherwise, so confusing. And the worst part is that while I’m pissed at him for what he did, next to that burning rage still lies unrelenting desire and admiration. 

He’s the smartest person I’ve ever interacted with. Our conversations left me feeling fulfilled and energized. He taught me more in two months than any other professor, and along with that, he was empowering. He helped me feel comfortable in my skin, gave me confidence in my opinions and beliefs. He validated me, which is a big reason as to why his rejection hurt so badly. 

In that moment, he took away everything he’d given me. Now, I’m back to square one or even worse, regressed before it. I’ve lost a part of who I am, and right now it doesn’t feel like I’ll ever get it back.

How am I supposed to get over someone I never dated? How does that work? 

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have tired myself out with all the crying. I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake up to a quiet, but insistent, knocking at my door. 

“Go away,” I murmur, cheek pressed against my arm. 

I’m still wearing the clothes from Plein Air, and they smell like coffee. They remind me of him; I always came home smelling like coffee after our dates and I’d hold onto it, because it was something we shared. Now, it’s the last thing I want. 

“It’s just me,” Addison says. 

“I’m sleeping,” I grumble. “I don’t want visitors.” 

I get out of bed and strip, then change into my pajamas. 

“I hear you moving,” she says. 

“Why are you still here,” I reply, with the same intonation.

“Because Amy told me you were crying earlier,” she says. “She said you seemed really upset. What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

“I said, I’m sleeping,” I insist, turning over to face the wall. “You can stand there all you want, but I’m sleeping.”

She sighs, loud enough to hear through the door. “Well, if you need anything…”

“Yeah,” I grunt. 

When her footsteps walk away, I open my eyes. I know she doesn’t deserve this treatment - she and Amy are just trying to help - but I can’t help but lash out at them. They’re closest. And if I can’t hurt the person who deserves it, they get the effects of the blows. 

When I actually try and sleep, I can’t rest. I lie there, tossing and turning for hours, my mind speeding at one hundred miles per hour. Suddenly, every memory I made with Dr. Avery flips through my conscious at warp speed, all of them crystal clear. 

I spend all night analyzing them, going over the signs of what I obviously read wrong. He doesn’t think of me as anything more than his student; he made that violently clear. How did I read this so wrong for so long? 

I never let my walls down. With everyone in my life, even the most important people, I’m guarded. But I let them down for him, or at least I started to. But why? Why him? 

Why couldn’t I see what a big mistake I was making? I set myself up to get hurt. 

At 1am, I hate him. At 2, I feel sorry for him. At 3, I want him back in my life. At 4, I wish we’d never met. The cycle continues until I tire myself out and fall asleep near 7, which is the time my alarm goes off to wake up and get ready for class. 

That’s not happening today, though. I shut it off as soon as it starts and pull the covers over my head. There’s no way I’m going to class today, because it’s his class. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show my face there again, let alone the day after what happened.

I hear Amelia and Addison going about their morning routines, moving around downstairs and making noise. When it gets close to 7:45 and time to leave, footsteps sound on the stairs and I groan inwardly, knowing someone’s voice will ring near my door in just seconds. 

“April,” Amelia says. 

I pinch my eyes shut tight.

“Are you up? You’re gonna be late.” 

I debate not answering, but I know that’ll only warrant her opening my door and coming in. And right now, human contact and conversation is the last thing I want. 

“I’m sick,” I say. 

“April…” she trails off.

“I’m skipping class. Go without me,” I say, making sure to sound stern enough so she can’t argue. 

“Alright,” she says, defeated. 

After I hear the front door shut, I climb out of bed and head downstairs. I go slow, because apparently a night of crying and overthinking has the same effects on the body as being hit by an 18-wheeler. This is worse than being hungover.

I grab a banana that isn’t mine and eat it slowly, leaning over the kitchen sink and squinting against the sunlight. My hair is a rat’s nest atop my head, and even when I comb it out of my face with my fingers, it doesn’t do much good. It needs a wash and a good brush-through, but neither of those things will happen today.

I grab a supply of food, consisting of Ritz crackers, peanut butter, and gummy Lifesavers, and bring it up to my room. I don’t plan on coming back downstairs later, because the girls will be home. And I’m not going to explain myself to them, because they won’t get it. They’ll be preachy and full of advice, and while their hearts are in the right place, that’s not what I need right now.

I need to be alone. Either alone, or with Dr. Avery. 

I mentally punch myself after thinking that. He doesn’t want to be with me, so I shouldn’t be wishing as such. I need to get him out of my head. He’s not a part of my life anymore. 

When I’m ready to go back to class, I’ll sit in the back and take notes like a normal student. I’ll gather the books he gave me and leave them outside his office when I know he’s not in. I’ll remove myself from him just as he removed himself from me. 

It’ll be like we never happened. 

…

My sleep schedule is all messed up, since I’ve taken to resting during the day and being awake at night. But I’ve found it easier to move around the house when Addie and Amelia are asleep. I can eat and shower and get fresh air in peace, without having a million questions thrown at me. 

I’m standing outside on the porch around 3am, barefoot with wet hair. I have a glass of wine in one hand and a Kraft single in the other, one bite taken from the corner. 

It’s Saturday now, and I haven’t left the house all week. I’m not so much sad anymore as numb, but that’s because I’ve shoved my feelings to the side. Being depressed was too draining, and I figured it’d be easier to simply forget.

As soon as someone asks me about him, though, I’m sure I’ll start crying. 

I shiver in the cold, but stay out for a bit longer. I’m not ready to go inside. My toes curl against the wood of the deck, the grains rough against my skin, and I take another bite of cheese. No one in the house likes it but me; they claim it’s fake and nearly plastic. I don’t care, though. I was never allowed to have food like this growing up, so it’s something I treat myself with now. 

The wind blows roughly and sends my damp hair tumbling across my shoulders. I inhale sharply and turn around to head back inside, shutting and locking the slider behind me. The house is still quiet, save for the snoring coming from the direction of Amelia’s room. 

When I go back to mine, I trip over a pair of shoes in the dark. 

“Shit,” I say, kicking them to the side. When I do, they hit my desk and cause a book to fall off, and when I pick it off the floor I see it’s  _ The Book Thief _ , that I set aside so I could read Dr. Avery’s selections. 

I hold it close to my chest and press tight. It’s comforting, even just the physicality of it. I turn on my bedside lamp and open to the page I left off on, feeling the words surround me like a heavy blanket on a deep winter day. This is what I needed. This is a book from my heart, not his. And my heart is what I need to look out for first. 

…

I sleep late the next day, and I would’ve slept later had there not been banging on my door. 

“What?” I bark, throwing the covers off.

“I’m coming in,” Alex’s voice says. “You better be decent.” 

“Wh…” I stammer, sitting up quickly as my door flies open. “What are you doing? Get out!” 

He shuts the door behind him softly, with care. “Nope,” he says.

“Yes!” I insist. I’m wearing a camisole with no bra, so I fumble for the sweatshirt hanging over my headboard and put that on. “I don’t want visitors. Leave.” 

“You’ve been in solitary confinement all week,” he says. “Thanksgiving passed, dude. We had Friendsgiving, and you weren’t even there. You’re not a flake, come on. You’re better than that.”  

“Wait,” I say, bug-eyed. “Thanksgiving passed?” 

He nods, eyebrows up. “Addie said she tried to get you to come, but you ignored her.”

I don’t remember specifics; all the times Addison and Amelia banged on my door run together. I got tired of giving them the same spiel, so I’m sure they got the hint from my dead silence that I wasn’t coming. 

“Damn,” I mutter. 

“Yeah,” he says, plopping down on my bed. “Scoot over.” 

I frown. “No,” I say. 

He doesn’t let up. “Scoot over,” he says, persistently. 

I roll my eyes and slide to the wall, pulling back the covers so he can lie next to me. It’s not uncomfortable by any means; Alex and I used to make out heavier than Derek and I do. Or did, I’m not sure. We never had sex, but we slept in the same bed plenty of times, which is something I’ve never done with Derek and don’t plan to. 

Instead of turning things awkward, mine and Alex’s past relationship created a stable foundation for our current friendship. 

Our shoulders touch, and I feel him breathing. It’s more comforting than I thought it would be, having someone next to me. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d become in isolating myself. 

“So, you gonna tell me what happened?” he asks. “Or do I already know?” 

“What do you mean?” I ask. 

“That asshole hurt you,” he says, voice on edge.

For some unknown reason, I feel defensive of Dr. Avery. It wasn’t all his fault. I had done a lot of assuming, and stepped over the line. Sure, I thought he was leading me there, but I was the one to push it too far.

“No,” I say, too quickly. 

Without moving his head, he shoots me a look. I give in. 

“Yeah,” I say. 

His jaw tightens. “I knew it, A. You can’t… he took advantage of you, didn’t he? Did he make you do something you weren’t comfortable with? Because I’ll fuckin’ beat his ass. I don’t care if he’s a professor, I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”

“Stop,” I say, firmly. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” 

I shrug, fold my arms over my stomach, then tuck my hands into the hoodie pockets.

“It’s hard to explain,” I say. 

“You might as well try,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

My throat clogs, hearing that, but I will it away. “It wasn’t just his fault,” I say, after a sizable pause. “I was confused. I assumed a lot. I took things too far, and he pushed me away. He said we shouldn’t be doing what we’re doing. So now, whatever was going on is over.”

Alex is quiet for a while. I don’t bother filling the silence, but I sniffle and wipe my nose. I haven’t cried for a few days, and the tears want to start up again. My nose burns and tells me as much. 

“He was right to have stopped it,” he says. “At least he’s got that going for him.” 

“He’s not a bad guy, Alex,” I snap. 

“It’s a stupid choice, April,” he snaps back. “He’s probably fifteen years older than you. You don’t find that a little creepy? Not at all, that he’s attracted to you?” 

“No,” I say, chin trembling. “Because he saw me. We would have these conversations… the most in-depth, intelligent conversations, and I thought I finally found someone who could keep up with my head. We were a good fit. The stupid age difference doesn’t matter. Don’t pull that. It’s cheap.” 

He lets a short puff of air from his nose. “I don’t want to see you hurt,” he says. “I told you that nothing good would come of this. And look what happened, dude. You lock yourself in your room for like, a week, because this doctor guy did what he should’ve done in the first place.” 

“You don’t know him,” I say. “You don’t know what it was like between us.” 

“You’re right, but I can guess,” he says. “He wanted something, A, and then he realized what a fuckin’ skeeve he was being. So, he stopped. And you got butthurt, because you were too invested.” He shakes his head. “He shouldn’t have been leading you on in the first place.” 

My stomach sinks hearing that, and I wonder if he’s right. I wonder if all the meaningful conversations with Dr. Avery were fake on his part, just because he was physically attracted to me. Alex is a man, he would know a man’s thought process.

But I’d like to believe Dr. Avery is better than that. He’s older than Alex, and probably thinks differently. I can’t be sure, though, and in reality it doesn’t matter. Things between us aren’t going back to the way they were. 

“You deserve an apology,” Alex tells me. “If he’s as decent as you say, he needs to apologize to you.”

A wave of sadness crashes over me, surging up after being pushed down. I want to feel again - what Dr. Avery made me feel - or at least something other than this fatal numbness I’ve sunken into.

I turn on my side and wind an arm around Alex’s midsection, and he looks at me, puzzled. I move my hand from his waist to cup his face, bringing him closer until I can press my lips to his in a slow kiss. 

He doesn’t kiss me back, though. He gently pushes me away by the shoulder, shaking his head.

“Stop,” he says. “You don’t want that.” 

I wipe my mouth and don’t bother arguing, because he’s right. He knows me too well to be wrong. 

“I know,” I whisper. 

I want Dr. Avery. I know that, and Alex does, too.

I rest my head on his shoulder and lie there for a while with my eyes open. When Alex ultimately falls asleep, I smile to myself and relax against him, enjoying the presence of another human so close to me. I’d missed the connection.

…

On Monday morning, though I’m feeling better, I still can’t force myself to attend Dr. Avery’s class. This will be the third I’m missing, and the final one I’m allowed to skip. 

I’m sitting at the dining room table, unearthed from my room for the first time in days, a bowl of cereal in front of me. Addie comes into the kitchen while I’m eating, and even as I’m on my phone I feel her watching me like some sort of specimen. 

“Hi, yeah,” I say, without looking up. 

“Are you… okay?” she asks, cautiously. 

“Fine,” I mumble, mouth full of cereal. 

“Did Alex talk to you?” 

“Did you tell him to?” 

She pauses awkwardly, which gives me the answer. 

“I just thought… you two are close. Even closer than us, in a weird way,” she says. “I’m sorry, Flower. Me and Amy were just so worried about you.” 

‘April Flower’ or ‘Flower’ is my nickname with Addie and Amelia when they feel bad, or they’re being soft with me. It doesn’t come out during casual moments, so I know this sentiment is coming from her heart. 

“I know,” I say. “But I’m okay. I just had a hard time there for a second.” 

“A whole week,” she says. 

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not exactly proud of it. So, I’m just gonna try and pretend it never happened.” 

After the words come out of my mouth, my phone pings with an incoming email. I haven’t gotten one for days, so I open my inbox immediately only to have my mouth go sour. 

> SENDER:  [ javery@UChicago.edu ](mailto:javery@UChicago.edu)
> 
> RECIPIENT:  [ aprilkepner@gmail.com ](mailto:aprilkepner@gmail.com)
> 
> SUBJECT: Missed Classes
> 
> April,
> 
> As I’m sure you’re aware, you missed both classes last week. According to the syllabus, only three unexcused absences are allowed. Any more, and your current A will drop to a B. If these absences are excused, please bring a doctor’s note or any other consequential documentation to our next class. If you wish to drop the class, please contact the Dean of Students. 
> 
> Best,
> 
> Dr. Avery

I fume as I read the words over and over again. More warmth comes from my cereal spoon than the entirety of this email. 

Best? Best?! 

As Addison leaves the room, I get to work on typing a reply. If he wants to hit me with the cold and removed tactic, I can play that game, too. 

> SENDER:  [ aprilkepner@gmail.com ](mailto:aprilkepner@gmail.com)
> 
> RECIPIENT:  [ javery@UChicago.edu ](mailto:javery@UChicago.edu)
> 
> SUBJECT: RE: Missed Classes
> 
> Dr. Avery,
> 
> I’ve been out of commission this past week due to personal issues. I’m sure you understand. 
> 
> Best,
> 
> April 

I press the send button forcefully, then set my phone down and finish my cereal. I stare ahead at nothing, pretending I’m not waiting for the next email to come in. 

I shouldn’t be so eager to communicate with him. I should’ve ignored the email. I shouldn’t have responded so fast, at least. And now, I’m the one waiting on him, depending on him, per usual. 

But the response comes quicker than anticipated. 

> SENDER:  [ javery@UChicago.edu ](mailto:javery@UChicago.edu)
> 
> RECIPIENT:  [ aprilkepner@gmail.com ](mailto:aprilkepner@gmail.com)
> 
> SUBJECT: RE: RE: Missed Classes
> 
> I’m truly sorry to hear that. Perhaps we could meet in my office today to discuss how we’ll move forward in lieu of all you’ve missed. 
> 
> Take Care, 
> 
> Dr. Avery

Take Care is a little better. Take Care, I’ll accept. But why am I thinking about what I’ll accept from this man when I’m still so angry with him? I groan inwardly and plunk my forehead down on the table. I can’t think straight when it comes to him, and the worst part is that I don’t want to try. 

> SENDER:  [ aprilkepner@gmail.com ](mailto:aprilkepner@gmail.com)
> 
> RECIPIENT:  [ javery@UChicago.edu ](mailto:javery@UChicago.edu)
> 
> SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Missed Classes
> 
> I can be there at 3. 
> 
> April 

I exit my inbox and put my bowl in the sink. I stand in the middle of the kitchen, feeling oddly calm with a layer of white hot nerves underneath the mask. It’s not even noon, but I need a drink. 

…

I wear a dress to meet Dr. Avery. It’s dark green with long sleeves, and I pair it with white high tops. Instead of leaving my hair down, I wash it and put it in a pretty bun, not a messy one. I scold myself for trying so hard while I put on my makeup, but I can’t seem to stop. 

I try and breathe evenly as I walk up the steps to the second floor, where his office is. I trail my hands along the familiar walls, remembering all the times we’ve walked down this hall side-by-side. I even recall the first time, when I felt awkward and small. I promise myself I won’t let him make me feel that way again. 

When I approach his door, I don’t let myself in like I used to. Instead, I hover by the entrance and knock on the frame. 

He looks up, adjusting his glasses. His eyes, green today, light up when he sees me. 

“April,” he says. “Please, come in.” He clears his throat while I walk across the threshold. “And, if you wouldn’t mind shutting the door.” 

I blink a few times, but follow through. I close the door behind me and the air crackles. Nothing has changed. No matter what happened in Plein Air, the tension between us still stands. It’s palpable, like a third person in the room. 

“Please, sit,” he says. 

“I’d rather stand,” I say, though I’m not sure why. I actually wouldn’t mind sitting, but I didn’t want to agree with yet another request of his so easily. 

“That’s fine,” he says, and stands up as well. 

He won’t let himself be lower. I wonder if that’s a power thing, then I wonder if it should turn me on in the way it is. 

“How’ve you been?” he asks, attempting small talk. 

I block it. “Awful,” I say, sharply. 

His eyes falter, drifting low to the floor before finding their way higher again. 

“And you?” I continue. 

“Admittedly, not great,” he says. 

“I wish I could say I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “But I’m not a liar.” 

He doesn’t respond right away, he lets the words soak in. And for that, I’m glad. He deserves to feel a fraction of the burn I had to deal with for the past handful of days. 

He takes a breath, and something changes. His face softens, his exterior disappears. He becomes the man I got to know outside this office. 

“April,” he says. “I want to apologize. I’m truly sorry for how I treated you at Plein Air. It wasn’t fair, what I said. It didn’t come out right. And I wanted to tell you this sooner, but I figured you needed space.” 

I’m relieved with how heartfelt his words are. His eyes showcase true feeling, and in him I recognize it. He’s being genuine, and showing me the side no one else sees. 

“You deserve to know the reason why I acted the way I did,” he says. “I can’t spend time around you because…” he pauses, and I hang on his every word. “I can’t trust myself around you.” 

My body buzzes, lit on fire. I knew I wasn’t wrong about what he felt for me, and all the doubting I’d done over the past week was for nothing. He’d been trying to repress it whole time. Pushing me away so I couldn’t get close and wreck his cool, collected facade. 

This isn’t supposed to happen between a professor and a student, I know that. But with chemistry like ours, there’s no going back. 

“Can’t trust yourself…” I say, taking a step closer to him. He doesn’t back away, he stays right where he is. “What do you mean, Dr. Avery? Can’t trust yourself not to do what?” 

I run my pointer finger over the pout of my lower lip and drag it to one side. He watches me, enraptured. I pull my lip down and let it pop back up, never breaking eye contact. 

“Not to touch me?” I ask, seductively, coyly.

I’m not afraid of the territory I’m finding my way into. I know he won’t turn me away this time, because there’s something blazing in his eyes that hasn’t been there before. Pure, unadulterated lust. And that lust burning in his eyes has found its way between my legs, where it’s pulsing to the beat of my heart. 

He gets nearer, walking slowly. I back up until my thighs hit the desk and he makes himself comfortable in my space, closer than ever. With my eyes trained on him, I sit down and spread my knees, even though I’m wearing a dress. 

He stands between them, looking at me like he wants to devour me whole. I hope the look I’m sending back communicates that I want him to, and I’ll let him. 

This is the closest we’ve ever been. I feel him breathing, and the hair on my arms stands on end when he holds my face and tips it up so I’m looking at him. I wait for a signal, permission to move forward, but I don’t wait long. 

He kisses me. And when we kiss, something breaks free inside my chest. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months, and though I’ve built it up high, it still exceeds my expectations. I can barely control myself. 

He’s not gentle. The kiss is rough and bruising, and I have to get my hands on him. I wind my arms around his waist and grapple with his shirt, taking two tight fistfuls of it and yanking hard, pulling our bodies flush together. 

When we come up for air, I’m panting, but he doesn’t let me rest. He covers my mouth again and holds the back of my head, parting his lips to slide his tongue against mine. 

“Mmm,” I moan, arching my back and kissing him back hard, pushing my tongue inside his mouth, too. 

We fumble for a moment while he shoves everything off the surface of his desk and lays me down on it. Spread eagle, I watch him from the hard surface and wait to see what he’ll do to me, where he’ll lead me next. 

He holds my calves under my knees and yanks me forward, close enough to wrap my legs around his waist. I hold tight and he leans down, covering my body so he can kiss me again. 

His stubble scratches my cheeks, but I don’t care. I can’t believe this is actually happening, and I’m beyond wet. The hard metal of his belt presses against my core, and it takes all I have not to grind against it. My underwear are past the point of no return, and it’ll only get worse with how he’s kissing and touching me. 

I’ve kissed plenty of boys. Some good, some bad, but Dr. Avery is beyond amazing. He’s powerful and he knows it, branding me with his lips and biting when it feels right. When he sinks his teeth into my lower lip and pulls before letting it snap back, I watch him with smoldering eyes. 

“You’re so fuckin’ sexy,” he growls, taking hold of my waist before his lips find their way to my neck. 

He licks my throat, under my chin, which makes me arch my neck and take a deep breath in, eyelashes fluttering. He sucks on the corner of my jaw, moving downward to the slope of my shoulder, where he bites down hard and makes me whimper. 

“Oh,” I whine, legs tightening around his waist. 

“I’m gonna mark you,” he says. 

I nod fervently, grappling at the back of his skull. I hold his face to my skin, begging for more, while he sucks portions of it between his lips before pulling away, forceful and loud. 

“Oh, god,” I moan, while one of his hands sneaks lower to hold my thigh. 

He rubs the smooth skin up and down, and with the way I’m laying the skirt of my dress has bunched around my waist. When his fingertips ghost across the waistline of my panties, my hips jolt forward and he notices. 

He pulls back, though. He sits me up and goes to my hair instead, unwinding my bun until long tresses tumble out and fall around my shoulders. He weaves one hand through to the base of my skull, where he grabs a firm handful of hair and tugs, just hard enough. 

“Shit,” I hiss, one hand on his tie. 

“You don’t know,” he says, hand still in my hair while he attacks me with kisses. “How long… I’ve been resisting you.” 

“I do know,” I breathe, arms slung over his bulky shoulders. “Because I’ve been doing the same.” 

Those words renew the vigor inside him and he bites a path down my neck, which means my panties are completely soaked through at this point. I want him to get me off, but I don’t think now is the time or place. I’m sure we’ll get there, though. 

Obviously, there’s no turning back. 

He pulls me back to a standing position while his hands reach low to grab my ass. I’m getting the picture that nothing he does to me will be gentle, and that excites me like nothing else. He knows what he wants, and he wants control. 

And I’m finding that being controlled turns me on like nothing else. 

His fingers dig in hard, yanking our bodies together. I have one hand on his chest, and the other slides down his torso to land on the impressive bulge between his legs. But before I can go further, the office phone rings.

He pulls his lips from mine, a wet sound following. “Fuck,” he says, looking to see who’s calling as I’m still wrapped in his arms. “I have to… don’t go.” 

My lips are red and swollen, he has an incredible erection, and both of our hearts are hammering.

He answers the phone, eyes still trained on me. He never tears them away. I put my hair back in its bun, straighten my dress, and gather my purse. Then, in newfound coy fashion, I saunter over, wrap my arms around him while he listens to business on the phone, and kiss his cheek. 

Then, in newfound coy fashion, I walk out with a wave and smile thrown over my shoulder. 


	5. Chapter 5

**APRIL**

I’ve never felt this good in my life. 

As I walk from the bus stop towards home, I’m smiling widely with a spring in my step. I’m confident, I’m empowered; I just made out with the object of my affection in his office, splayed across his desk. 

I’m currently living the fantasy I never dared to dream of. 

When I walk in the front door, Addie and Amelia are sitting on the couch watching TV. They both turn to look when I come in, seemingly shocked that I’m one, out of my room and two, not sobbing. 

“April…?” Amelia says. 

She seems more surprised than Addie, given she didn’t see me this morning functioning in society, eating cereal at the dining room table.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” I say, running my fingers through my hair. I shudder when I think of the last person to do it, Dr. Avery, grabbing that forceful fistful at the base of my skull. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

They shoot each other a conspicuous look. 

“Where’ve you been?” Addie asks. “We thought you were upstairs.”

“At school,” I say, hanging up my bag. 

“School?” Amy says. “Class?”

“Uh, no,” I say. “Group project. Met up with some people to talk it over.” 

“How would you know about a group project?” Amy asks. “You haven’t been to campus for a week.” 

“There’s this new thing they invented,” I say, eyes wide. “Where you can communicate electronically, over the internet. It’s called  _ email _ .” 

She rolls her eyes hard. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” 

I laugh loudly and walk into the kitchen, looking for snacks. “Do we have anything to eat around here?” I call. 

I hear footsteps, and suddenly Addison is in the kitchen with me. 

“Are you high?” she asks.

“Shut up,” I say, leaned inside the pantry.

“No, legit,” she says. “Did you smoke? Snort something? Because one minute you’re sitting at the table, a hot mess, and now you’re all peppy. So, what upper did you take? Did you find one of Alex’s Adderalls?”

“No, stop,” I say. “Are these your Wheat-Thins? Can I have some?” 

“Sure,” she says, off-handedly. “But no bullshit. You’re not high? Drunk? April, are you day drunk right now?” 

I chuckle. “So, now in order to be happy, I have to be schwasted,” I say. “No, Addie. I’m fine. I had a bad week, and now I’m better. Simple as that. Stop reading into it. I’m back to normal.” 

She eyes me. “Just like that,” she says, warily. 

“Just like that,” I say, holding the plastic bag of crackers close so I can eat three at a time. Crumbs tumble from my lips, and I do my best to catch them before they hit the floor. 

“So, since you’re better,” Amelia says, sauntering into the room. “You comin’ to the party tonight?” 

…

I feel so good, there’s no way I turned down the party invite. They told me to have fun, but try not to get sloppy drunk. I said I’d do my best. 

“Kepner, come do shots!”

I look over to the source of the voice from the back of the couch. A bunch of boys are gathered around the dining room table, waving me over. 

“Fuck off!” I shout playfully.

“Get over here,” they whine. 

“You know I can drink you pussies under the table,” I say, pointing my Solo cup at them. “Do you really need me to prove it?” 

“Get your little ass over here!” someone says, and I give in. 

“Fine!” I say, and set my beer down in the middle of the table once I get there. 

“We’re gonna make it interesting,” Mark Sloan says. “How about a game of ‘Never Have I Ever?’”

The group makes sounds of approval, and I pretend not to be wildly nervous. This is a game I vehemently avoid - being that my friends assume I’ve done a lot of the things, when in reality, I haven’t. 

But right now, I’m a little too tipsy to back out. 

“So, the rules are like this. If I say, never have I ever smoked pot - literally every single one of you would take a drink. Fuckin’ stoners.” 

We all laugh, and I lean forward with my palms on the table. This is a game I’ve watched frequently, but avoided joining. When I was sober. Now, I’m brazen and ready to play. 

“Alright,” Mark begins. “Everyone ready? Got your shots?” 

I have a small, mini version of a red Solo cup in my hand that’s filled with vodka or tequila, most likely. 

“Never have I ever… had sex in public.” 

My drink stays on the table, obviously. Addison drinks, and so does Lexie. Along with Owen, who I’m recognizing for the first time tonight. I hadn’t known he was here. He must feel my gaze, because he catches my eye across the table and winks. I giggle in return, raising my eyebrows. 

Mark drinks, too, slamming the shot glass back down afterwards. They get refills, and the game moves on. 

“Never have I ever… taken hard drugs.” 

My glass doesn’t move. I’ve only ever smoked weed and drank, but Amelia goes. We all knew that was coming. Alex, too. They went through their phase around the same time. It wasn’t pretty. 

“Never have I ever… had a crush on a teacher.” 

I glance around as my fingers tighten on the glass. Mostly everyone drinks, so I join without feeling singled out. Who hasn’t had a crush on a teacher? It’s not exactly uncommon. 

Alex catches my eye now. I shake my head minutely, and he laughs all loose and breezy. 

“Never have I ever…  _ made out _ with a teacher.” 

No one moves. My hands sweat, and I wonder if Mark is onto me. Was it that obvious that just earlier today, I was pressed under Dr. Avery as he kissed the hell out of me? Is it that obvious that his hand was almost up my skirt, and I had to shove my soaked underwear to the bottom of my dirty hamper when I got home? 

“Fuckin’ cowards,” Mark says, and takes a shot. 

I laugh uncomfortably as people start asking him his story. No one so much as looks my way, so I’m in the clear. It was just a raunchy question, probably so he could brag about doing it himself. I’m relieved. I can breathe again.

I hadn’t realized how badly I don’t want my friends to know about Dr. Avery, because they’ll judge. Without a doubt, most of them will look me up and down and tell me I’m making a mistake, or that he’s taking advantage of me. And it’s nothing like that.

“This is stupid,” I say. “I’m-”

“Never have I ever,” Mark cuts in, stopping my sentence. “Uhh… hated my family.” 

Everyone knows the surface of my story there, and when he makes eye contact I know it’s meant for me. I raise my eyebrows, challenging him, and pick up three shot glasses and take them one after the other. 

“Damn, Kepner!” he bellows, as I slam the third one down and shake my head, pinching my lips. “There you go!” 

I smile and toss my hair behind my shoulders, exposing the spaghetti straps I’m wearing. I have on a low-cut black crop top with shimmery leggings, and black ankle boots. I was cold before I got all the alcohol in my system, but now I’m just fine. 

As I stumble away from the table, I’m past tipsy and on the way to drunk. And in typical drunk April fashion, the room spins and I’m laughing at nothing.

“Hey, April,” I hear, and look to either side without seeing anyone there.

But I feel a hand touch my arm, turning me around. And when I do, I see it’s Owen who said my name, and he’s smiling. 

“Oh…” I say, leaning my head to one side. “Hey, Owen.” 

“Hey,” he says. “Awesome party.” 

He smells strongly of cologne. Not like he bathed in it, like high school freshmen, but like he sprayed it on one too many times. It’s not quite overbearing, but almost. 

“Thanks,” I say, pointing at him. “Addie and Amelia… their idea.” 

“And you just came for the booze?” he asks, chuckling. 

“It’s like you can read my mind,” I say, squinting. 

“Well, I know the feeling of coming just for one specific thing,” he says. “I basically just came for you.” 

His eyes roam my body, starting at my face and going lower. He spends a good chunk of time on my chest, where the swells of my breasts are showcased in the low shirt, and moves to the strip of my belly showing before coming back up. 

“You look nice,” he says. 

I laugh, if only to fill the silence where I can’t think of what to say. “Thanks,” I giggle. 

“Haven’t seen much of you in class,” he says. 

“Oh, yeah…” I say. “Sick. I’ve been sick. Bird flu, I think. Better watch out, don’t wanna catch it.” 

He smiles, eyes wandering again. “From you, I wouldn’t mind.”

I gape. “You’d risk bird flu to kiss me?” 

“Fuck yeah,” he says, popping my personal bubble. “And I think you wanna kiss me, too.” 

I pull my head back to look at him incredulously. “You’re a cocky piece of shit, you know that?” I say, meaning for it to come out more seriously than it does. It doesn’t help that I can’t stop laughing or smiling, not only because I’m uncomfortable, but because I’m wasted .

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging a bit. “And you’re hot as fuck. Why are we stating the obvious?”

“Whoa, whoa, big fella,” I say, palms up. “Slow your roll. We just met.”

“No, we didn’t,” he says, still not giving me my space. “I see you in class all the time.”

“You just said you hadn’t seen me, though,” I hiss, swaying. 

“You know what I mean,” he says, then puts a hand on my waist. I don’t have enough wherewithal to move away or tell him to lay off, and his fingers are rough and dry. “Do you think we should fuck, April? Because I do.” 

“Holy… sh…” I say, but just as I’m about to go on a drunk tirade, Derek comes out of nowhere and shoulders his way between Owen and me. 

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my girl,” he says, shoving the redhead’s shoulders back. 

“Derek,” I say, grabbing a fistful of his shirt at the small of his back. “Don’t-” 

“Who do you think you are, motherfucker?” Derek continues, getting in Owen’s face. “Putting hands on her like that. She’s taken, shithead.”

Owen shoves Derek’s shoulders in return, and they stand at odds with each other. 

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” Owen grumbles. “I didn’t know.” 

“Come on, fireball,” Derek says, taking me by the wrist in attempts to lead me away. 

I look at Owen over my shoulder while Derek pulls me. “He’s not my boyfriend!” I call, though I’m not sure how that’s relevant in this situation or why I said it. It’s true, Derek didn’t even bother to check on me when I fell off the face of the earth, so whatever we had going on is over. Or at least, I assumed so. I hadn’t even known he was here tonight. 

We find our way to a couch and he pulls me onto his lap, facing him. My body is loose and my brain is hazy, so I find myself with arms draped over him with my head on his shoulder, comfortable and relaxed. 

“Babe,” he says, pushing me up so he can look at my face. “I didn’t mean what I said the other day. About you being a tease. Can we just pretend that never happened?”

“Hmm…” I sing, closing my eyes and raising my eyebrows. “It did happen, though.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, hands on my back. “But I’m asking if we can just… forget about it. And move on. Come on, babe, I miss kissing you. Can you just kiss me?” 

“Kiss you…” I trail off, then open my eyes. 

I bite my lip and shake my head no. 

“What?” he says.

Instead of Derek’s thin lips, all I’m thinking about are Dr. Avery’s. His lips, his stubble that didn’t scratch me like Derek’s does, and his strong hands that knew exactly where to land and what to grab and how to manipulate me. Derek can’t compare. 

“No,” I say, giggling.

“Why?” he asks, giving me a nasty look while I lean further back on his legs.

“Because,” I say, punctuating each syllable with a gentle smack to his shoulders. “You were mean to me, and I found someone better.” 

I whisper the last part with the tip of my nose touching his, and he glowers darkly. 

“Get off me, then,” he says, standing so I tumble to the side while I watch him storm away. 

“Bye,” I say, resting in the corner of the couch as Alex comes over. 

“What got Dere-Bear’s panties in a twist?” he asks, sitting down. 

“Me,” I answer, and kick off my ankle boots so I can put my socked feet on the cushion next to my friend. I place them on his thighs and he pretends they aren’t there, used to the contact at this point. 

“He’s a fuckin’ weird ass,” Alex says. “Biggest drama queen here. And I swear to god, birds live in his hair.” 

I throw my head back in a loud cackle, and Alex can’t help but join in. “You’re so messed up!” I gasp, kicking him softly.

“Yeah, what about it,” he says, then pulls a joint out of his pocket. “Wanna share this? My dealer came by today.” 

“Sure,” I say, and sit up more. 

He lights the blunt and takes a long hit, and I zone out. I come back when he hands it over, and I take my time inhaling and keeping the smoke in without coughing. I’m good by now; it’s not like I do it regularly, or even on my own. Only with Alex. But we’ve been casually smoking weed for a few years, just at parties or when we’re really stressed. 

Sometimes, I can’t help but think about how my family would react to my lifestyle. If they saw me in this outfit, showing so much skin, with a blunt in my hand next to a boy, they’d collapse. I’m unrecognizable at this point.

“Pass back,” Alex says, smiling. “Don’t hog it.” 

“Sorry,” I say, taking one more. “I was thinking.” 

“Oh no, don’t get Kepner thinking when she’s high,” he says, inhaling through his teeth and closing his eyes. “Bad combo.” 

He hands it back once he’s done and I take my turn again. “Or I’ll start spilling secrets,” I say, feeling mellowed from the weed and alcohol mixed together.

“You know I love our gossip sessions,” Alex says, his head now resting back on the couch. 

“I know you do,” I say. “You’re like a… like an old lady at the hair salon.” 

He gestures goofily with his hands, the joint between his thumb and first finger. “So, tell me everything,” he jokes. 

“Well,” I say, going along with the joke. “I had a depressive episode for a week because of the guy I like, then met up with him in his office and we made out on his desk.” I laugh, mouth wide open. The room moves slow, Alex reaction is slower. “Oops,” I say, realizing what I’ve said. 

“What the fuck, dude…” he says, but he isn’t frowning. His eyes look amused. 

“I’m so high,” I say, covering my face with my hands. 

“But that’s legit?” he says. 

I nod, smiling and closing my eyes in disbelief that I let it slip out. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Damn. Did you like it? Was he any good?” 

“You’re seriously asking me this?” I say. “You really must be stoned.”

“Yeah, so what?” he says. “I wanna know.” 

I press my lips together and pull my knees to my chest, trying to get lost in the memory of how Dr. Avery felt pressed up against me. His body was big, firm and muscular, so easily overtaking mine. Beneath him, I felt so fragile. I think that’s just how he wanted it; he’s incredibly powerful. 

“It was amazing,” I say. 

“Did he get you all hot and bothered?” 

I punch him in the shoulder and he falls to the side, cracking up. When Alex is high, his laugh is louder and freer. It’s adorable. 

“Fuck me, Dr. Avery! Fuck me so hard! Fuck me ‘til my virgin head falls off!”

I get on my hands and knees and start whaling on him, but my punches don’t hold much power and only make him laugh harder. 

“Shut the fuck up, you dick!” I say, and give him one last shove with my foot. He can barely catch his breath he’s laughing so hard. 

“Well, I’m not sleeping with Addie anymore,” he says, still slumped. 

I crinkle my eyebrows; I try to find his train of thought, but it’s derailed. That came out of nowhere. 

“Huh?” I say. 

“Nah,” he says. “I mean, she’s hot. It was hot. But I don’t see her that way, you know. Just like I don’t see you like that. You guys are my sisters.” 

“Stop,” I say, cringing. “You just made it sound… no. Get to the point.” 

He giggles again, shoulders bouncing. “It’s ‘cause I love somebody else,” he says. 

I gasp, sitting up on my knees. “You’re in love with Derek,” I say. “That’s why you talk so much shit on him.” 

He shoves me, and I fall to my butt laughing. 

“You’re an ass,” he says. “A real fuckin’ ass, Kepner.” 

“Learned from the best,” I say, pushing on him with my foot again.

“No, dude,” he says, glancing to the kitchen where a group of girls are standing. “I like someone. Like, legit.” 

“Do you have a crush?” I ask. 

He mimics my face, pinching his expressions. “Do you have a crush? Shut up.” 

“You shut up!” I laugh. “Who is it?” 

He sighs, shaking his head slightly. “Izzie Stevens,” he says. 

I find her instantly, due to the shock of bright blonde hair. It’s pulled away from her face in a high ponytail, voluminous bangs layering her forehead. She’s talking with Meredith Grey and Cristina Yang, who are old friends of Addison’s and sometimes find their way to our parties.

I don’t know much about the latter two, but I had an Intro to Psych class with Izzie a couple years ago. She’s bright, bubbly, and warm. I was in her group for a final project, and she and I got along great. During the times she was in my dorm working on stuff, Alex would always find his way there, too.

“You’ve liked her for forever, haven’t you?” I say, eyes wide and wondering.

He doesn’t answer, which tells me all I need to know. 

“Oh, my god,” I say. “Stop waiting! You have to tell her!” 

“No fuckin’ way,” he says, waving me off.

“Uh, yes you do,” I say. “You’ve had a crush on her since like, freshman year. What are you waiting for? Graduation?” 

“Shut up, dude,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

I get on my knees again and jostle his shoulders. “You gotta tell her,” I say. “I bet she likes you, too.” 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Yeah, I bet she does!” I insist. 

“Fine, then. If I do this, then what are you gonna do?” 

“I don’t have to do anything,” I say. 

“Yeah…” he says. “Hold on, I’m thinking.” 

I flop back. “This might take a while.” 

“Shut your mouth,” he says, and we both laugh. “Okay, I thought of it. If I can’t pussy out with Izzie, you can’t pussy out with this Dr. Avery guy.” 

I look at him dubiously. “You were just yelling at me about him a couple days ago,” I say. 

“Yeah, well, who cares,” Alex says. “You should give it a shot. I changed my mind. We’re both gonna grow some balls and try to be happy for once in our lives.” 

“Happiness is good,” I say, leaning against him.

“It is,” he agrees.

“Alright,” I say. “Deal.” 

He smiles genuinely, and it reaches all the way to the corners of his eyes. He shifts and kisses me firmly on the cheek, patting my leg roughly as he does. 

“You’re my best friend, dude,” he says. 

I shove him with my shoulder. “You’re so fuckin’ stoned,” I say. 

“Yeah,” he says, then rests his head on me. “But you’re still my stupid ass best friend.” 

…

On the morning before my gender and sexuality class, it feels like I’m getting ready for the very first day. I haven’t been in so long, and though Dr. Avery caught me up with what I missed over email, I can’t help but feel left behind and nervous.

What will it be like, watching him teach and knowing how his lips feel? On my mouth, on my neck? How will I learn when all I’m doing is waiting for the next time we can be alone? 

I spend plenty of time getting ready - today, I wear black jeans, a thick white sweater with a scarf, and black flats with a strap up the middle. There’s a light dusting of snow outside, but not anything too bad. 

I make sure my makeup is perfect, and end up taking so long that Addie bangs on my door. 

“We’re leaving in five!” she says.

“Coming!” I call back.

As the three of us walk to the bus zipped in our winter coats, we make light conversation. It’s been a while since we’ve traveled together, and it’s nice to be back in our routine. 

“So, April,” Addie says. “How’s it going with your teacher?” 

I shrug. Ever since my feelings for Dr. Avery have become more serious, it stopped being a joke or a dare that Amelia gave me on the first day. It’s more than that, and not something I’m willing to share. 

“Fine,” I say.

“I hope you know I was totally kidding about that dare from forever ago,” Amelia says, seemingly reading my mind.

“Yeah, totally,” I say.

“He’s probably way old, anyway,” she continues. 

“No, he’s not,” I say, hands shoved into my pockets. 

“Still, don’t sleep with him. That’d be creepy.” 

“Yeah,” I agree halfheartedly. 

“And totally against protocol,” Addie says.

I scoff. “Since when did you become such a law-abiding citizen?” 

“I’m not,” she says, shrugging. “It’s just common sense. It was totally a joke. We were talking about it the other day, randomly. I’d honestly forgotten about it until you mentioned something about the class. And it was fucked up of us to joke about. Like… obviously, you’re smarter than that, but still. Fucking your teacher is never a good idea. It’s gross, honestly.”

I don’t respond. I’m not sure when they both decided to climb up on the high horse, but it’s not a good look. I don’t like the sudden onset. 

“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “He’s just my teacher.” 

When we part ways after the bus ride, I give them both a weak wave, put off by what they said. I try to shake it out of my head, though, and let my excitement about seeing Dr. Avery take over. 

I walk into the classroom and find him already there, the only other person in the room. 

“Hey,” I say, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. 

His attention flies to me instantly, eyes sparkling. “Hey, you,” he says, smiling as he adjusts his glasses. 

I take the stairs slowly, though all I want to do is race down and fly into his arms. But I contain myself, and show some restraint.

“Nice to see you,” he says, watching me as I take my coat off and hang it over my chair. 

“You, too,” I say, leaving my purse at my desk while walking his way. “Sorry for leaving you high and dry the other day in your office. I had… places to be.” 

“You did, did you?” he says, slyly.

I take his tie and run my hand down it, smoothing over the silky material. “Mm-hmm,” I say. 

He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, some that I pulled from my ponytail to frame my face. “Busy woman,” he says. 

“I am,” I say. “What’d you do this weekend?” 

“Worked on a paper I’m submitting for publication,” he says. 

“I didn’t know you were writing a paper,” I say. “What’s it called?” 

“Beyond Victim-Blaming: Strategies of Rape Response through Narrative,” he says, prattling it off easy as breathing.

I’m so aroused by his intelligence, it’s insane. “I’d love to read it when you’re done,” I say.

“I hoped you would,” he replies. “Did you do the reading for today?” 

“Finished the book last night,” I say, regarding  _ Darling Days _ by iO Tillett Wright. “Cover to cover.” 

“That’s my girl,” he says, very quietly. 

I almost fall to the floor. 

As more of my classmates filter in the room, I retreat to my desk without taking my eyes off Dr. Avery. I cross my legs, hoping to quell the insistent tugging between my thighs, and take deep breaths. 

_ That’s my girl _ . 

So, am I? His girl? The phrase excited me, but it also made me curious. I know I shouldn’t be hanging on everything he says, but I can’t help it. I’m infatuated with him, and everything he does. I can’t pull away.

“You’re back,” Owen says from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. I can’t quite remember what transpired between us at the party over the weekend, but it comes along with a sour feeling. So, that means it wasn’t anything good. 

“Yeah,” I say, dryly. 

“Do the reading?” 

“Yeah,” I say. 

“Hey, listen,” he says. “At the party, I was fucked up. I came on too strong. That was on me, and I wanted to say sorry.” 

I shrug, exhaling. “It’s whatever,” I say. 

“Cool,” he says.

I kick myself for brushing it off that easily. Just because I can’t clearly remember doesn’t mean he didn’t do anything wrong. I should’ve at least thanked him for apologizing instead of making it so meaningless. But I can’t take it back now, because class is starting. 

“I’m going to assume everyone did the reading,” Dr. Avery says, hands clasped behind his back as he walks across the width of the lecture hall. “And because you did the reading, you’re prepared to write the first of two ten-page papers. Due in two weeks.” 

Everyone shuffles and groans; probably no one sees the subtle smile that graces his lips like I do.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “So, let’s get started. Does anyone have anything important to say about  _ Darling Days _ ?” 

I contemplate a moment before raising my hand. Dr. Avery eyes me, and I feel it deep within my body.

“Why don’t we let someone else begin the discussion, April,” he says, like we share a secret. 

Which we do. 

I smile shyly and lower my hand. He holds eye contact with me for a beat too long, and I savor it. 

“Ben,” he says, calling on a boy whose hand wasn’t raised .”How about you? Any thoughts?” 

Ben raises his eyebrows, I swivel in my seat to watch him. 

“Uh…” he says. “The main dude… he was a survivalist, that’s for sure. He knew how to stay alive in some seriously messed up shit. Uh, stuff. Sorry.”

A few people laugh, and Dr. Avery smiles amusedly. 

“You’re right,” he says. “Anything more on that?” 

I raise my hand like a shot, quick and direct. His eyes meet mine again, warming up immediately. 

“April,” he says. 

“That’s not what he wants to be defined by, though,” I say. “He was clear in that yes, the struggles formed the person he grew to be. But he didn’t want to rely on them for characterization as a whole. There was a quote that stuck out to me… hold on a second.” I spend a moment leafing through the novel until I come to a pink sticky note poking out of the side. “‘I don’t want to wear my tragedies on my skin, in my teeth, in my walk. I want something different than what I’m inheriting, but I’m going to have to make that happen for myself.’” 

I look up from the page and clear my throat. 

“That quote stuck with me because I can definitely relate,” I say, then suddenly realize I’m not in Dr. Avery’s office alone with him. There are almost fifty other students in this room. “I mean, probably most of us can. Who didn’t have a rough time growing up? Your past doesn’t define your future. You can become something notable despite of what happened to you, not because of it.”

I look to Dr. Avery for validation, and he’s beaming. Actually beaming at me.

“Very good,” he says, and nods.

…

After class is over, I intentionally take my time in packing up so everyone will leave before me. But Owen sticks around, too, jaw set tight and cheeks bulging because of it.

“Hey,” he grunts. “Out in the hall. Can we talk?” 

I give him a strange look. “Sure…” I agree, trying to be subtle in the way I throw a look over my shoulder at Dr. Avery. He catches my eye briefly; I’m not sure if Owen notices.

When we’re outside of the lecture hall, Owen crosses his arms and shakes his head, running his top teeth over his bottom lip.

“You’re not fuckin’ slick, you know,” he says. “Neither of you are.” 

I cross my arms, too. “What are you talking about?” I say. 

“You and Avery,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes. “At the party, you said Derek wasn’t your boyfriend. And now, it’s obvious as to why - it’s because you and Avery are fucking.” 

I stare at him, gaping and wide-eyed. “What? Owen, no…” I shake my head, backing away. 

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he says. “With all those glances and secret looks, sure. No wonder you have the highest grade in the class; I should’ve known. It’s because you’re a slut. You have an A because you’re giving Avery pussy. And shit, can’t blame the guy. I’d give you one, too. But seriously, April? That’s so fuckin’ low.” 

“You don’t know me,” I say, baffled this is even happening.

“I know enough,” he says.

I turn around to walk away, but he follows. 

“Leave me alone,” I say. 

“I have half a mind to contact the Dean of Students,” he says. 

“Nothing’s going on between us!” I shrill, and find he’s backed me up against a wall. 

“Is there a problem here?”

Dr. Avery appears out of nowhere, looming over Owen’s head. I cower against the wall, shaken, but straighten when I see him. 

Owen glances between the two of us and scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m not sure how you got a hold of those records, but Miss Kepner’s grade is none of your business,” Dr. Avery says. “If you’d like to discuss your failing score, then you should take it up with me.” 

“Christ,” Owen mutters under his breath, then shoves his way out of the situation, muttering under his breath as he heads down the staircase to the first floor. 

When we’re alone, I lick my lower lip and drag it slowly into my mouth, looking up at my professor through my eyelashes. 

“April,” he says, voice even and businesslike. “May I see you in my office, please?” 

“Of course,” I say, following him there. 

When we arrive, I set my things on one of the chairs and linger with my hand on the door handle. 

“Should I shut it?” I ask, coyly. 

He looks up from where he’s leaned on the desk and says, “Please.” 

I shut it, waiting for the lock to click, and walk over to him in my flats. When I get closer, I sit on the corner of his desk, one knee on either side of it, and look up. 

“How was your weekend?” he asks, smoothing his hands over my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What did you do?” 

“Had a party,” I say, blinking at him. “Uh…” I giggle. “Got drunk, and a little high.” 

He smirks. “Sounds fun.” 

“It was,” I say. “But I was thinking about you the whole time.” 

His eyes flash; his hands move to take off my scarf - gently lifting it over my head to deposit it with the rest of my things. 

“You were on my mind, too,” he admits. 

“While you wrote the paper?” I ask. 

He nods, licking his lips and staring at mine. “All the time,” he says. 

“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding. 

I take his tie again and pull harder this time, bringing him closer. 

“I thought about kissing you,” I say, tilting my face near his. We’re so close that our lips brush when I speak, and electricity surges through me at lightning speed. My whole body is hot. 

“I thought about much more than kissing you,” he says. “Come here.” 

He leads me to his office chair and sits down, pulling me onto his lap as he goes. With one knee on either side of his hips, I straddle him and rest my weight on his thighs. 

“That’s better,” he says, hands sliding lower to grip my ass through my jeans, subsequently yanking my pelvis against his torso. 

I hold his face in my hands and lower my head, pressing my lips to his in a soft, gentle, tentative kiss that soon turns more heated. I open my mouth and suck on his lower lip, sloppily kissing his chin and jawline while his arms tighten around me. 

“You were driving me crazy in class,” he says, fingers digging into the supple skin of my ass. “You have no idea what you do to me.” 

“Maybe I do,” I breathe, dipping my head to kiss his neck. My teeth graze along his Adam’s apple and, responding to his low groan, I close my lips and suck on it. 

“Fuck,” he says, then takes my ponytail and yanks hard. 

With my neck now arched and exposed, he takes advantage and ravages it. He bites, sucks, and licks me, claiming me as his own while lighting my skin on fire. 

I’m throbbing with desire. So much so that I can’t think straight, but I know what I want. And I want release. I’m almost past the point of want and onto needing it. 

So, I do something about it. I move in a way I never have before, taking his hand that isn’t gripping my ponytail away from my waist to slide it lower. I fumble with the button and zipper of my jeans, hitching them down as far as I can, as far as I need, and place his hand on my core. 

“Touch me,” I say. “Dr. Avery, I’m wet. And I’m so horny. I might die if I don’t have an…” 

His eyes are dark, pupils more dilated than I’ve ever seen. “You want me to make you come?” he asks, affirming.

I nod shakily. 

“You want me to fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, dirty and alluring. 

“Please,” I say, urging his wrist along. 

While his hand dips inside the front of my panties, his mouth finds the dead center of my chest. He presses a few kisses there, drawing tight circles around my definitive freckle with his tongue as he parts my outer lips. 

I’ve been touched over the pants, over the underwear. No male has ever been able to coax an orgasm out of me, but I have no doubt in Dr. Avery’s skills. 

He pushes one finger inside, the middle one, I think. I press my lips together and sit up straighter, arching my back at the same time. He doesn’t slide it all the way in, just far enough to create room for one more to join. When two are inside, he starts moving them slowly, rhythmically, and my hips find the pace easily. 

I plant my hands on his shoulders and work against his hand, maintaining heavy eye contact. That is, until he buries his face in my neck again and licks across my collarbones, stopping when he gets to the soft divide in the middle. 

I massage his tense muscles roughly, baring my teeth as he changes up the angle and rubs my clit with the pads of both fingers, my clit that he found with no trouble at all. 

“Oh, shit,” I whimper, eyes pinched shut. 

“Right there,” he says, smoothly. “I see it on your face. It’s right there, isn’t it?” 

“Uh-huh,” I whine, exhaling shakily. “Can you - pinch it… I like… I like that. Rough, do it rough.” 

He follows my request and pinches my clit between his two fingers, rolling it slightly once he has a good grip. I can’t keep my eyes open, my eyelids keep fluttering of their own accord, and my knuckles turn white from how hard I’m grabbing his shoulders. 

“Say my name when you come,” he orders. 

I nod as best I can, barely able to breathe. 

When it happens, I wrap my arms around his neck, forcing his face against my chest.

“Oh, god,” I moan. “Dr. Avery… you’re gonna make me… I’m… fuck!” I moan, holding his head even tighter.

I shove my hips against his hand, riding out the aftershocks, and I don’t let go of him after it’s over. My legs are trembling, core pulsing, heart hammering. I’ve given myself plenty of orgasms, but never one that felt like that. 

He pulls his hand out from between my legs as I release him by just a bit. While looking up into my eyes, he sticks the two fingers in his mouth and sucks the shine from them, licking the tips after. 

As they’re wet with my arousal and his saliva, he runs the pointer finger across my lower lip. I take his wrist and push the finger into my mouth, sucking on it slowly, wrapping my tongue around what I can reach. My teeth graze the skin as he pulls it out, all the while he’s still watching me in rapture. 

“One thing,” he says, holding my jaw in his palms. He moves my head closer and kisses my forehead, deft and sure. “Call me Jackson.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**JACKSON**

April and I have been spending a lot of time in my office.

After every class, she lingers outside the lecture hall while I come here first. She waits, allowing a necessary amount of time to pass, then follows. The door shuts, locks, and we’re all over each other. 

Even on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when we don’t have class. She comes to Cobb Lecture Hall and finds me, wandering down the narrow hall to my office and appearing in the doorway as if on cue. I’ve grown used to hearing her footsteps, however soft, padding on the carpet before she appears. 

Christmas break is approaching, and though we haven’t put a label on we’re doing other than making out and groping each other, I can’t help but have the urge to get her a gift. She has no family; the desire to take care of her has gone nowhere. Though we haven’t known each other long, and have only been intimate for a short while, I’m protective of her as if she were mine. 

Because I want her to be. 

I get jealous sometimes. A lot, actually. When she tells me about the parties her roommates throw, and how much fun she has. I’m not jealous because I think she’s leading on other men, but because I want to join her. Not a moment goes by when I don’t think of her, but being together during all those moments is impossible. There’s no way I could ever be her plus-one to a party. At least, not anytime soon. 

She told me last week that, before the beginning of fall quarter, she set up her schedule for the entire year. We have a class together next quarter, too. This power dynamic between us won’t change. 

I can’t help but wonder how serious it is, what we’re doing. The physical attraction is so strong; we never have much time for speaking. Our bodies do most of the communicating. When I’m thinking straight and not in April’s vicinity, I spend time analyzing what’s between us. But when we’re in the same room, it doesn’t so much as cross my mind. 

When we’re in the same room, my mind goes wild. All I think about is her body. We don’t spend much time stimulating each other intellectually anymore, because we’re too preoccupied stimulating each other in different ways. 

Today is Friday, and I’m sitting at my desk grading the research papers that April’s class wrote. I sought hers out first because I didn’t have much hope in the others, and I was right to do so. It’s been downhill from the start. 

“Hi, Jackson,” I hear, and look up to see her in the doorway like usual.

Today, she’s wearing a loose, burgundy dress with black tights and low boots. Her hair is down, just the way I like, lips a shade of pale pink that matches the flush of her cheeks. 

“Hey, you,” I say, greeting her in the same manner as always. I do it because of the smile it earns me, and I’m not disappointed. 

She shuts the door quietly, pushing it closed while keeping her eyes on me. 

“Is it cold out there?” I ask. 

She nods, shedding her jacket that was already unzipped. When I look closer, I see snowflakes dotting her fiery hair.

“Your face is pink,” I say. 

“Can’t help but blush around you,” she says, slipping out of her boots, too. I look to the ground because I love seeing her small feet in tights, and smirk to myself. Everything about her is small, dainty, fragile. To me, she’s a porcelain doll. 

“You wore your hair down,” I say, watching as she comes closer.

She gathers it in her hands, moving it all over one shoulder. “Yeah…” she says. “It keeps me warm, and I know someone who likes it.” 

She stands while I stay sitting. I pause for a moment, taking her in, then open my body language. “Come here,” I say. “Sit on my lap.” 

She grins, moving to straddle me. With her arms around my neck, she nuzzles my nose and causes my heart to explode into a million tiny pieces. She closes her eyes for a moment and I hold the small of her back, massaging gently. 

“Are you grading papers?” she whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth softly, like she’s practicing for the real thing. Her lips are smooth and plush, pressing against my lower one, taking it between her teeth slightly. 

I nod, close my eyes and hitch her skirt higher, gathering the fabric around her waist. It cooperates easily, being that it’s material akin to a t-shirt. 

“How was mine?” 

“You got the grade you deserved,” I say, dipping my fingers inside the waistband of her tights so I can trace the circumference of her waist. I snap the elastic against her, and she flinches because of it. 

“You and I both know I got the best grade in the class,” she says, overlapping my wrists with her hands.

“Guess you’ll find out,” I say.

“Or, you’ll tell me,” she lilts. 

“I’ll do no such thing,” I say, and slip my hand between her legs, over her tights. “I’m your teacher. You wait for your grades until I’m ready.” 

Her eyes are half-lidded as she looks at me, heartbeat throbbing against my fingers. 

“Yes, professor,” she says, shuddering. 

My dick twitches under her, straining against the crotch of my dress pants. Her body arches and stretches, adjusting on top of me, and the look in her eyes is past lustful. It’s the pure embodiment of sex.

“Sit on the desk,” I order, but before she can move, I do it for her. I lift her by the hips and pull her to the edge, spreading her thighs with the dress still pooled around her waist. 

“What are you…” she breathes, inhaling deeply as she watches me sink to my knees. 

I grab her shins and massage them fluidly, licking my lips below her. “Lay back,” I say. 

She complies without asking why, which boosts my confidence. 

As she does, I get a good hold of her tights and underwear and pull them down slowly, all the way around her ankles. I pull them over her feet and hold the arches in my hands, moving to kiss the inner bones of her ankles, closing my eyes and opening my mouth on her skin, biting her Achilles tendon, the supple part of her calf, the inside of her knee. 

“Oh, Jackson,” she murmurs, still on her back. 

“Sit up,” I say sternly, and she presses up so her spine is straight and her legs are spread, welcoming me to something I haven’t yet seen, only touched. 

Her dress covers it, though, by just a bit. So, I bunch the fabric and pull it over her head, which leaves her in only a light pink bra with lace trim along the bust and band. Her chest is small, she can’t be more than an A-cup, but they’re perfect. They’re better than perfect. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, lifting her foot to stroke my upper arm.

I take that leg and kiss her thigh, looking at her through my eyelashes as I do. “I’m gonna eat you out,” I say.

She inhales sharply and holds it, ribs showing through her skin beneath the lace of the bra. 

“I’m gonna fuck you with my mouth,” I say, thumbs on her inner thighs. “I’m gonna lick that pink little pussy until you can’t take it anymore, until you’re begging me to finish you off.” 

She trembles. I feel it deep in her muscles. 

“Does that sound good?” I say.

“Yes, professor,” she says. 

I lower my gaze and lay eyes on the most intimate part of her body for the first time. She’s not shaved, which turns me on even more. 

She seems to realize this fact at the same time I do, because she speaks up. “I’m sorry…” she says, self-conscious. “I’m sorry, there’s hair… I didn’t… I would’ve…” 

I shake my head tersely. “I like a woman who isn’t afraid to be natural,” I say, surprising her by running my thumb through the soft hair. “This is sexy.  _ You  _ are sexy.”

She lets out a long breath, eyebrows tilted up while I yank her hips forward. Now, she’s on the very edge of the desk, presented for me. I’m at face-level with her core, and her outer lips are already glistening with arousal. 

“You’re wet, princess,” I say, the pet name coming naturally, out of thin air. 

“That’s what happens when I’m around you,” she says, curving her spine forward. 

I lick my lips and kiss below her bellybutton, heading lower. When my tongue touches her hot, slick skin, I push apart her outer lips and slip my tongue inside, which makes her emit a soft sound of surprise.

It hadn’t crossed my mind to ask if she’s had this done to her before, and now I’m too caught up in the moment to care. 

I’ve gone down on my fair share of women, but not a single one who tastes like April. She’s innately sweet and hot, simultaneously. When I kiss the middle of her center, a sloppy, wet sound follows and she coats my lips.

I lick them and push her legs apart further, baring the swollen, pink inside of her body. 

“You taste fucking amazing,” I tell her. 

“I do?” she asks, genuinely. 

I nod and dive back at her, flattening my tongue and running it up her slit again and again, repeating the motion until she’s quite literally dripping. Perched on the desk, she trembles and shakes, whimpering while completely at my mercy.

“This feels… you feel so…” she stammers, face tomato-red. 

Interrupting her, I sink my teeth into the soft part of her inner thigh and she whines loudly. She throws her head back and exposes that beautiful neck, and I watch her chest heave with exertion, flushed as well.

I bite her again in a different spot. And again, sucking the skin into my mouth until a myriad of hickeys dots her thighs; red, angry and shimmering with saliva. 

I push my fingers through the curls between her legs and yank her hips so she falls flat on her back. She spreads her legs wider and I toss them over my shoulders, burying my face in her heat so I can send her over the edge. 

I don’t go easy, either. I pull her clit into my mouth and suck on it roughly, rhythmically, until she can’t help but match my speed with her moans. Through the thin fabric of her lacy bra, her nipples stand on end as she rubs her flat palms across her breasts, pushing herself closer. 

“Mm… mm… oh, god,” she whimpers. “That feels… oh, god!”

“Say it,” I murmur, lips against her. “Say my name.”

She throws her head to the side and grunts loudly as I plunge two fingers inside under my chin. 

“Jackson!” she moans, voice breaking in the middle of my name. “You’re gonna make me come, I’m so close - I’m so, so, so close… you-” 

Before she can finish, I graze my teeth across her clit and tilt my head, twisting her nerves as I go. She’s loud, way too loud, as she screams with her orgasm. 

I reach and clap a hand over her mouth, while her walls tighten around my fingers on the other. Her breath is hot against my skin and she comes so hard that it soaks her lips, her inner thighs, and my entire palm.

“Jesus, princess,” I say, uncovering her mouth so she can breathe easier. She’s still panting, soft belly moving in and out with great difficulty as it’s coated in sweat.

“I’ve never…” she gasps, eyes on the ceiling as she puckers her lips and lets a stream of air through them. “That hard. Came that hard. Holy… wow. Holy shit.” 

I descend between her legs again and lap it up, which causes her to push up on her hands and watch me in awe. I keep my eyes on her, too, the entire time - until my lips, cheeks and chin are coated in her essence. 

The apples of her cheeks are still red, though it’s faded from the rest of her face. As I sit back, she pulls her knees together and slips off the desk, easily because of the perspiration on her skin, and touches the button of my dress pants. 

Usually, after I make her come, she takes a while to recover. She’ll lie spent on top of me, panting, for a good handful of minutes - minutes that I cherish. So, the fact that she’s up and heading for more has caught me off guard in a positive way. Around every corner, she brings something new.

She guides my shoulders so I sit in the chair, and I comply. Her bottom half is still undressed, and I don’t resist the temptation to glance between her legs. Though I just finished, the tight V is so irresistible, all I want is to get my mouth on her again. 

But instead, I spread my knees. By the look in her eyes and her hands on my zipper, I know what she plans to do. 

“Can I?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. 

“Of course,” I say, lifting my hips so she can pull my pants down to my ankles. 

My erection is creating a blatant bulge between my legs, and I might explode if it doesn’t come out soon. I’ve never felt such pent up arousal as I’m feeling now. 

While keeping her eyes trained on mine, she rubs her palms over my erection and weakens me. My eyes threaten to close and my jaw goes slack - I’ve imagined us in this situation, fantasized about it, for so long. So, the fact that it’s finally becoming reality is almost too much for me to bear. 

“Can I suck it, professor?” she asks, innocently. 

I throw my head back so it hits the chair. “Yes,” I say. “Take it out.” 

She pulls my boxer-briefs down in the same manner my pants came off, and when she does, my dick springs straight up. There’s already a bead of pre-come on the tip, which probably leaked onto the fabric of my underwear, too. 

April stares at it. Not glances, not a simple look; she really stares. Almost to the point where it makes me self-conscious - she can’t take her eyes off my dick. 

“Bigger than you’re used to?” I ask, cockily. 

She licks her lips, breaking her eyes away from my crotch for a moment to smile at me. 

“You want it in my mouth?” she asks, then wraps her dainty fingers around the shaft to start pumping casually, using my own fluid as lube. 

“Fuck yeah I do,” I grunt, abs tightening. 

She leans closer, now her breath swirls around my sensitive skin and makes me twitch. “You want my warm, wet, tongue on you… you want me to lick you? You want me to get you off, professor?” 

I clench my jaw and my thighs. If I get any harder, I’ll die. 

“Yes, April,” I say, voice strong and commanding. “Now, do it.” 

“Yes, sir,” she says, and puts her lips on me for the first time. 

She starts at the tip, hesitating for only a moment before using her tongue, curling it to wrap around the underside of my dick. She moves lower, creating friction, and keeps her hand moving. I’m much too large to fit inside that pretty little mouth of hers. 

As she takes me deeper, I reach and take a rough handful of her hair, grabbing tight at the base of her skull. 

“I love your hair,” I groan, giving it a tug for good measure. “You like it when I pull your hair, princess?” 

She nods with my dick in her mouth, making loud slurping sounds as her saliva increases.

“Good,” I say, arching my back as she takes me deeper. “Fuck, Jesus. Shit.” 

My breath doesn’t come easily anymore. My balls tighten as I get closer, and I pull on her hair harder as the moments pass. 

“I’m almost there,” I grunt, hips bucking as she hollows her cheeks and sucks hard. “I’m almost - fuck!” 

She pulls off as I come, fumbling for a moment while hot, white liquid spurts out and lands on her chest, dripping sordidly over her collarbones, down over the swells of her breasts and between them. Saliva seeps out from her mouth over her lips, and she looks up at me with a dizzying, smoldering expression.

Still feeling dominant, I bend in half and collect drops of semen with my thumbs, then push them past her lips, inside her mouth. She curls her tongue around the tips, never breaking eye contact, and sucks off what came from me with her eyes closed. 

“Good girl,” I say, as she pulls away with a satisfied exhale. “Now, come here.” 

I pull her onto my lap, not missing how our lower halves are bare and essentially pressed against each other. I’m sure she doesn’t, either. But all the while, she straddles my hips and wraps her arms around my neck, eyes glistening into mine. It seems she wants to say something.

“What,” I say, softly.

She runs her fingers through the hair on the back of my head, smiling gently. 

“What, baby?” I say, catching the term of endearment only after it escapes. 

The warmth on her face in response makes me want to say it ten times over. 

“I really like you,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over my jaw.

I kiss hers, then the swell of her cheek as she smiles. “I really like you, too,” I say. 

“Sorry, I can’t think of a better way to say it,” she says, nuzzling my temple and tracing the bow of my glasses with one finger. 

“You said it perfectly,” I say. 

She beams. “Yeah?” 

I kiss her lips, soft and sure. “Perfect,” I say. 

I let my hands trail over her back, down to the small of it, until they reach the swell of her ass. I get a good handful of each cheek and squeeze, which makes her pitch forward and bury her face in my neck.

We’re quiet for a while, exploring with our hands. I let my mind get lost in thoughts of her; they begin at her body while my fingers trace the knobs of her spine, wondering, dreaming about what it would be like to be inside of her. But then, my thoughts wander further as my eyes catch the bookshelf, unable to ignore the urge to have her read more, hear those magic, colorful thoughts she keeps locked inside her head.

My favorite thing is the look in her eyes when she goes on a tangent. She thinks she talks too much, but I could sit and listen to her all day. Everything is better than anything I’ve ever heard someone else say. 

And her voice, which she’s talked down on before, is like music to my ears. It’s high and unassuming when she wants it to be, but she’s capable of commanding the room the next moment. Her versatility is astounding. 

That voices sounds now, tearing me from my thoughts. 

“You know, I’m an excellent cook,” she says, tracing the shells of my ears with her fingertips. It sends tingles down my spine and throughout my entire body. “The gentlemanly thing would be to invite me over to your place, so we aren’t just getting each other off in your office.”

I glance at her, and she reads my mind like always.

“Not that I don’t love this and look forward to it every day,” she says, smoothing her pointer finger over my eyebrow. “But… I want more. I want more with you, Jackson.”

Her words catch me off guard. Not because I’m adverse to the idea; actually, for the complete opposite reason. I’ve been tossing around this subject in my head for a while, but had no idea how to broach it. I didn’t want to come on too strong and scare her off, I wasn’t sure if this was what she wanted. I didn’t want to push her into anything. 

“April,” I say, running my hands down her upper arms. 

“Jackson,” she says. 

“Would you come to dinner at my place tomorrow night?” I ask.

“If I can cook it,” she says, inching closer to press her lips against my cheek. “I’d love to be there.” 

We get dressed a while later, which, for me, just consists of pulling up my pants. For her, she steps into her underwear while I watch, then pulls her dress over her head so it flutters down her body. 

“I feel you watching me,” she says, smoothing the fabric. 

“You’re the best thing in the room,” I say, not looking away. 

She looks over her shoulder and says, “There’s not much.” 

I gesture towards the bookshelf. “Every book I’ve ever loved is here with us,” I say. 

She turns around after she puts on her tights, padding over with a smirk on her lips. “I rank above your beloved books?” she asks, eyebrows up as she gasps. “I’m so lucky.” 

I chuckle, low in my throat as she plants her hands on my shoulders. I glance out the window briefly to see that it’s begun to snow. 

“It’s snowing,” I say. “Let me drive you home.” 

Her eyes widen, eyebrows twitching subtly. “Are you sure?” she asks. “What about…?” 

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Everyone’s gone for the night.” 

“Only if you’re sure,” she says. “I wouldn’t wanna do anything to…” She interrupts her own train of thought. “Remember Owen? I can’t stop thinking about what he said a couple weeks ago, and he hasn’t talked to me since. It makes me nervous.” 

I can’t lie, the presence of the redhead who sits behind April has unsettled me, too. I haven’t felt such protective rage as I felt on the day he confronted her in the hall for a long time. Luckily, I kept my cool. But there’s no guarantee I’ll stay calm next time - so, hopefully there’s not a second confrontation.

“He has no proof,” I say. “He’ll just come up looking jealous.” 

She nods, soothed by my words. I am, too, seeing as that’s what I’ve been telling myself since he noticed. And since that day, I’ve done my best to be more subtle with her in public. In private, there’s no such thing as subtle.

We walk through the parking lot together, shoulder to shoulder with our hands shoved into winter coat pockets. 

“One time, while I was trying to pick up swimming, I got locked out of the townhouse with wet hair,” she tells me, a smile in her voice. “No one was home, and I waited outside as long as I could. Until I realized my hair was frozen, and every time I moved my head it literally sounded like a windchime.” 

She laughs, loud and unabashed while tossing her head back. I can’t help but join in; it’s contagious. I’ve never met someone with joy like hers - joy that makes me want to unlock my own. 

She makes me happy. So happy that it’s scary. And tomorrow, we won’t be together in my office. We’ll be together in my apartment, which is intimidating and heavy. I never invite women to my place; not for any reason. My space is sacred for only me. This is different, though. Everything about April is different, and I want tomorrow night to be perfect. 

Next to me, she keeps chattering. I enjoy the rise and fall of her voice as I get lost inside my head. 

I’m nervous about having her over, which is off-putting. I don’t get nervous. I’m a grown man with a doctorate degree, and this wisp of a woman makes me nervous. As I glance her way, counting the snowflakes in her hair, everything about her floors me. 

Tomorrow night will surely kill me. 

Suddenly, April stops in her tracks and I hear another female voice in our vicinity. 

“April?” 

I look ahead and see a russet-haired, tall girl and a boy, both squinting at April through the falling snow.

“Is that you?” 

“Hey.... guys,” April says, a strange lilt in her tone. 

“What are you doing? I thought you were at home,” the girl says. 

“I was just heading there,” April says. “Uh, I totally wore the wrong shoes today. I was about to catch the bus. But Dr. Avery said he’d give me a ride.” She looks up at me, eyes flashing with worry. “Dr. Avery, this is my roommate, Addison, and my best friend, Alex. Guys, this is my professor, Dr. Avery.” 

Addison gives me a strange look. Alex smiles. Both put me off for the same reason. 

“You’re walking the wrong way for the bus, dude,” Alex says, laughing lightly. 

“Because his car is this way,” April argues. 

“Whatever you say,” Alex says, laughing some more. 

“I’m freezing,” Addison says. “Come on, Alex, let’s go. We’re gonna miss the bus.” She looks between April and me. “Drive safe, please. The roads are probably slippery.” 

I nod, and April waves them goodbye. 

When we get inside my car, I start the engine so the heat comes faster. I can’t stop thinking about the look on the male friend’s face, so smug and knowing. I can’t help but obsess over the fact that he must know. 

“April,” I say, cracking the silence. 

She looks at me, shoulders caved in to keep warm, hands tucked under her thighs. 

“You can’t tell people about us,” I say, shaking my head. “This is serious. For me… I could lose my job. I could lose everything if people found out. I need you to understand that no one can know what we’re doing.” 

She scrutinizes me, eyes narrowed. “I know that,” she says. “Obviously. Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I trust you,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I’m just…” I sigh, massaging my temples. “I’ve never dealt with something like this before. It’s terrifying. I’m not quite sure how to handle it. And I don’t want anything to go wrong; my worst fear is something jeopardizing what we have.” 

She takes her hands out from under her legs as she turns towards me, pausing as they rest on the console. I follow my instincts and take them in mine, thumbs over all four fingers on each hand. 

“I won’t,” she says. “I won’t let anyone touch this. I know it’s delicate, and it’s just as special to me as it is to you.” 

We look into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then I bring her hands to my face and kiss the knuckles. Nothing more needs to be said. 

The drive home is relatively quiet, filled only with April toying with the radio without ever finding a station to land on. When I pull up in front of her townhouse, she glances at it before turning back to me. 

“Tomorrow night,” she says. “Oh, wait. Can I have your number so you can text me your address?” 

“Of course,” I say, unsure why we haven’t exchanged them sooner. 

We plug each other’s contacts into opposite phones, then hand them back. 

“Thanks,” she says, smirking. “I’ll text you.” 

She leans across the divider and puckers her lips, closing her eyes while she does. I spend a split second just looking at her, admiring that face, before I close the distance and give her what she wants a - a casual kiss. 

“Bye,” she says, touching her lips after we pull away. 

“Stay warm,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

She waves over her shoulder, a crazy smile on her face as she runs inside. I can’t help but grin softly and shake my head as I roll away from the townhouse, gripping the steering wheel tight in my fists. 

The nervous feeling comes back as I carefully navigate the streets towards downtown, towards home. This wasn’t supposed to happen - any of it. Not the sexual component of our relationship, and definitely not the romantic component. 

But I can’t stop it. When we were apart and April holed up in her house without so much as showing up in class, I wasn’t exactly thriving, either. I was in pain, too. I couldn’t express it in the same way she could for two reasons. One, because I have a full time job that I couldn’t simply abandon. And two, because I can’t allow myself to showcase my emotions on my sleeve in such a way. That’s not something I know how to do, or would be comfortable doing. 

But I saw it in her, and that’s partly what’s so attractive - the fact that she lets herself be vulnerable. When she’s angry, she lets me know. When she’s sad, I feel it. When she’s happy, the room lights up. April is so in tune with her emotions, so empowered by them, while I become crippled under the weight of mine easily. And while she visibly lets herself be affected, my reaction is the opposite. When I’m feeling too much, I become a blank slate. Stone-faced, because that’s what I was taught. That’s how I learned to survive. 

When I’m alone, which I am frequently, it’s easier for my thoughts to creep in - no matter how hard I try to barricade them out. Like now, in the car, I’m still picturing April’s friend Alex’s face as we interacted. There was something there - I don’t think she’s telling me the full truth in how much he knows. Because I’m sure he does. I’m able to read people easily, and that was the face of someone who knows something. 

When I get home, I worry about something else. As I walk in the door, everything I see is familiar but suddenly not good enough. I live in a modern apartment downtown, overlooking the city, but it needs to be perfect for her. Everything needs to be in its place and spotless. Clutter isn’t an option, and neither is dust. This place must be immaculate for her arrival, so I change my clothes and get to work on cleaning it - music cranked all the way up. 

As I mop the floor, brow furrowed, April’s face is in my mind. Her smile, her laugh, her concentrated expression as she leafs through sections of a book to find a quote she needs. 

I’m so fond of her, but simultaneously terrified of her. 

Not of her, literally. I’m not scared of that small, lithe body, her long, wavy hair or the moss green of her eyes. Nor am I afraid of her stature; she’s probably 110 pounds soaking wet. 

What I’m afraid of is much more than that. I’m rendered nearly speechless, thoughtless, immobile, when I think about her brain and how complicated she is. When I think about the deep look in her eyes while she stares into mine, seemingly reading my mind. I’m terrified of the gentle way her hands roam over my face and trace my features, scared of how naturally her body folds against my own. 

I’ve never felt love before, not purely, unconditionally. And I’m petrified that what we’re doing is on its way there. And even worse, I’m worried that when it gets to that point, I won’t know how to love her back. 

Driven to near-madness in my OCD cleaning state, the house is spotless once I finish. Afterwards, I get in the shower, then head to the grocery store, where I pick up two bottles of expensive wine - one red and one white. I’m not sure which she prefers. 

As I think about what appetizers she’ll like, I find myself feeling excited alongside the nerves. Just because what we’re doing is in uncharted territory and I have no idea how to proceed, that doesn’t mean I don’t have the desire to try. 

I have the desire for everything with her. She’s otherworldly, unlike anyone I’ve ever known. 

I get home, put the groceries away, and change my clothes yet again. This time, for a nighttime run. I strap my phone to my bicep and place my earbuds in, jogging at a steady, quick pace to the tune of ‘Jesus Walks’ by Kanye West. 

I go for about six miles before I loop around and come back, sweat dripping from my forehead, back and chest though it’s December. My head is clearer and my thoughts don’t suffocate me. When I walk back inside my apartment, it’s clean and there are fresh groceries in the fridge. My mind is at ease and I’m calm enough to relax for the night, which is uncommon for me. 

Right when I walk in the door, I get a call. 

“Hello?” I say, still catching my breath. 

“Hi, Jackson. It’s Naima.” 

“Hey,” I say, hands on my head as I cool down inside, eyes closed. “Hey, Naima. How are you?” 

“I’m well, thank you,” she says. “I wanted to call and make sure we’re set for our appointment this coming Monday, 7pm.”

I walk to the counter, where my planner is tucked inside my messenger bag. I look at the date, find it clear, and say, “Yes. We are.” 

“Good,” she says. “That was my fault for being unable to schedule with you at our last session. I apologize for that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’m glad we got it figured out. I’ll see you Monday.” 

“Yes, you will.” 

I hang up the phone and unstrap it, taking the earbuds out. I write down my therapy appointment for Monday and remind myself not to miss it like last time, where I stayed too late with April in my office and completely forgot. It didn’t start me off to a great week, even though what I was doing was easier and more pleasurable than being with Naima intensely discussing my past. 

Therapy isn’t new, but my therapist is. I needed a specialist, because my former counselor wasn’t helping me move forward. Our conversations traveled in circles. I dig into the deeply-buried topics with Naima, who forces them out. It’s by no means pleasant.

I take another shower without rushing this time. I stand under the water and run my hands over my face, closing my eyes to let the droplets trail over my skin. I breathe deeply, centering myself, and start mentally preparing for April to be in my living space in less than 24 hours.

When I come out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my waist, my phone is lit up with three notifications - all texts from April. My heart leaps, after which I shake my head with embarrassment. 

When I unlock the phone, there are three gray bubbles of messages waiting. 

> **RECEIVED, 10:38pm-** hey stranger. 
> 
> **RECEIVED, 10:38pm-** it’s april (: 
> 
> **RECEIVED, 10:39pm-** what are you up to? 

My fingers hover over the keys, wondering how to respond. It’s not common that I text casually or for fun. I communicate via text for work sometimes, but if I want to have a conversation with an old friend or something along those lines, I use email. Text seems so casual, so informal; I’m not sure how to approach it. 

But for her, I’ll try. 

> **SENT, 10:45pm-** Hi. It’s Jackson. Had a quiet night, just got out of the shower. Picked up a few things for you at the store earlier, hope you like wine.

I press ‘send’ and wonder if what I said is good enough. Then, I decide to stop analyzing and get into my lounge clothes instead of staring at the phone and waiting for her to reply. 

> **RECEIVED, 10:46pm-** of course i like wine. I’d like anything you got, because i like you (; 

I swallow thickly. She is so flirtatious, which is something I’ve had to grow used to, to keep up. It’s not how I’m accustomed to communicating, so it’s been somewhat of a challenge. Not that I don’t enjoy flirting with her, because I do. But my first instinct is to be serious. That’s what I know how to do. 

But for her, I’ll break out of my shell.

> **SENT, 10:48pm-** Good thing I like you. I got us two bottles. 
> 
> **RECEIVED, 10:48pm-** ohhhhhhh two? Dont i feel special (; 
> 
> **SENT, 10:50pm-** So, what do you plan on making for dinner? I can stop by the store again tomorrow if need be and pick up more ingredients. 
> 
> **RECEIVED, 10:51pm-** idk. What do you want to eat? 

I lick my lips, wondering if I should go for the response that I want. I shake my head, telling myself I shouldn’t, but change it again. She flirts with me, I flirt back. 

> **SENT, 10:55pm-** You. 

I smile to myself after it goes, proud. I’m glad I did it. 

> **RECEIVED, 10:55pm-** you arent full from earlier today? (; 

I’m not sure what the quota of wink-face emoticons is, but she has to have reached it by now. I chuckle, thinking that. 

> **SENT, 10:56pm-** Any amount of you is never enough. 

Satisfied with my answer yet again, I lie down in bed only to have my phone ring moments later. When I pick it up, April’s contact is displayed on the screen.

“Hello?” I answer. 

“I can’t handle you,” she says. Her voice is low, like she’s trying to be subtle. But to me, it sounds seductive. “You always know just what to say.” 

One corner of my lips pulls up. “When we’re talking about you, it’s easy,” I say. 

She sighs, sounding frustrated. “I want to be with you right now,” she says.

I look at the other side of my bed, completely empty, and can’t help but wish the same. 

“I know,” I say. “Tomorrow.” 

“I’m so glad it’s not far away,” she says.

“You never told me what you’re making,” I say, relaxing further onto the pillow. 

“Because you decided to get all sexy on me,” she says, giggling. “I tried.” 

“Alright, I’ll play by the rules,” I say. “One of my favorite foods is lasagna.” 

“That takes too long,” she says. “Sorry. I don’t wanna spend the majority of the evening in the kitchen making a pasta cake when I could have my hands on you.” 

I clench my jaw, feeling my body inevitably respond to her words. 

“Okay,” I acquiesce. “I like chicken parmesan, too.” 

She makes a soft sound. “You like Italian,” she says. 

“It’s my favorite,” I reply.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “I can’t wait to come over.” 

I clear my throat and say something brazen. “Would you like to spend the night?” I ask. 

Through the speaker, I hear her breath hitch and wonder if that was one step too far. If I should’ve waited until next time, given her more space to get used to the concept.

“I’d love to,” she says, smoothly. “I hoped you would ask.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**APRIL**

I press the phone to my chest after I hang up with Jackson, clutching it like he can feel me. 

I close my eyes and hear his gravelly voice ringing through my ears, soothing while exciting me at the same time. I don’t know how I played it so cool during the call, because my nerves are so on fire that if I move too fast, I might throw up. 

I’m not sure what to expect tomorrow night. As I lie there in the dark, phone now plugged in and resting on my nightstand, I stare at the ceiling and try to guess. My chicken parmesan will inevitably turn out amazing; I’m sure he’ll love it. I might be too wired to eat a single bite, but I’ll give it a try. 

But after that? Who knows where the night will end up. 

I try to imagine it, pinching my eyes shut tight. Maybe we’ll have wine by the fireplace, maybe we’ll watch a movie. Maybe we’ll talk about books, or maybe he’ll give me a massage. 

I can’t help but wonder if the hypothetical massage will lead to a hypothetical something else. Tomorrow night, will he ask me to go all the way? 

My stomach flips and I break out in a light sweat. Of course, the thought of sex with Jackson has crossed my mind many times. Almost every day, and definitely each time we’re together. We’ve obviously engaged in different forms of sex - oral and manual. But the actual act of penetration doesn’t seem plausible; I can’t conceptualize it. 

I’ve been a virgin for so long that I don’t know how not to be one. 

Am I ready? Do I want to? I think I do. 

With him, definitely. Right now, so soon, that’s what I’m not sure about. 

I try and tell myself not to worry, to just go to sleep. Everything will be clearer in the morning, when I can actually prepare myself instead of stew in bed and do nothing. But when I close my eyes, my thoughts keep whirring. The voice in my head, instead of shutting up, gets louder. 

Jackson isn’t like guys my age. He would never pressure me into doing something I’m not comfortable with. But I’m hung up on making him happy. I remind myself not to put his happiness before mine. If I’m not ready, that’s okay. 

I don’t want him to judge me, though. Or entertain the idea that I was somehow lying to him while we’ve been intimate - though, I haven’t. A lie of omission, maybe. But he’s never come out and asked if I’m a virgin. I wouldn’t have lied if he did. 

I sigh, loud and vehement. All I want is for the night to pass so tomorrow will come, but the minutes tick by torturously slow.

Jackson is so mysterious. I’ve gotten to know him much better over the course of the last few months, but there’s still so much that’s gray and unanswered. When I look into his eyes, I’m curious about everything I see. I’m hungry to know every small detail about his past, every facet of his current thoughts, and what he thinks of the future. I never ask, though. Because while he’s intriguing, he can be intimidating as well. 

That side of him arouses me like nothing else. 

I love when he gets commanding and controlling, all the while staying respectful. When he tells me what to do and how to pleasure him, when he manipulates my body in ways he likes. I love being at his mercy, like he could use his power to break me if he wanted to. But obviously, he would never do that. 

My body buzzes as I picture what our first time will be like. If it hurts, he’ll be gentle. He’ll go slow. But right now, thinking about his body - his wide hands, sinewy arms and bobbing Adam’s apple - I don’t want him to be slow and gentle. Thinking about his plush lips, skilled tongue, and thick thighs, I want to be fucked.

I give in to my desires and slip a hand under the covers, into the front of my shorts. Frustrated with the lack of friction, I flip onto my stomach and use the weight of my body against my hand to find my orgasm. It’s nothing like the ones Jackson gives me, but it does the job and lulls me to a state of relaxation. Just far enough that I fall asleep much quicker than I would have otherwise. 

I went to sleep with Jackson on my mind, and I wake up with him in the same place. 

I sit up and scratch my head, realizing how badly I need to shower. It’s only 9am, which means no one else in the house is awake, so I head to the bathroom to spruce myself up. 

I go through my normal routine, then take it further. As my hair is wrapped in a towel, I sit on the lip of the tub and shave my legs to the point of perfection. I have no doubt that, even if we don’t go all the way tonight, Jackson’s hands will be all over me. And I want to be in a smooth, moisturized state for him.

I let the towel wrapped around my body drop after my legs are finished. Using a handheld mirror, I scrutinize my pubic hair and wonder if I should do something about it. I don’t exactly know what’s normal for a girl; we never, ever talked about bodily things in my house growing up, and it’s not something I’ve brought up with Addison and Amelia. With the way Jackson reacted, though, I got the idea that going unshaven isn’t the norm. 

It made me feel self-conscious, having the hair, though I know he liked it. I decide to compromise; shave some and keep the rest. If I trim and tame it a little, I’ll feel more confident in not being completely bald, which is something I think people do.

It’s hard work, shaving down there. The hair is coarse and grows in all different directions, and the last thing I want to do is cut off a lip, or something. So, I go slow. 

So slow, that it gives Amelia time to wake up and bang on the door. 

“I need to pee,” she groans, sounding sleepy.

“Use Addie’s,” I say, bent in half to get a good look at where the razor is going. 

“I can’t. I’m seriously about to piss my pants,” she says, rattling the doorknob. “It’s locked. Let me in, April!” 

I roll my eyes and sigh loudly, wrapping the towel again so I can go get the door. Amelia blusters in, waving through the steam, and sits down on the toilet. 

“Spa day?” she asks, as I give her privacy and stand just outside the door.

“Yeah, something like that,” I say.

The toilet flushes and she appears beside me seconds later. “You smell good,” she says. 

“Thanks,” I reply, and slip back inside. “Now, don’t bother me.” 

I sit down again with a concentrated expression on my face and try to lessen the hair in the manner I want. It takes a fair share of shaving cream and a lot of blade rinsing, but eventually I get my femininity looking the way I want. And I think Jackson will like it, too. 

As I’m putting on lotion, there’s another knock at the door. 

“One second,” I say. 

“Is my contact solution in there?” Addie asks. 

I glance the counter, where the bottle sits. “Yeah,” I say. “Hold on.” 

I’m lotioning my knees when I open the door and hand her the bottle. “What are you up to?” she asks. 

“Lotioning,” I respond.

“For who?” she says. 

“Uh, myself,” I say. “I don’t know about you, but dry skin isn’t my friend.”

She raises her eyebrows, tossing the bottle from hand to hand. “Are you going to see someone?” she lilts. 

“No,” I say. 

“What was all the razor-knocking for, then?” 

She means when I hit the razor against the side of the tub to get the hair out. The house has thin walls, so the sound can be heard throughout the whole thing. 

“My hairy legs,” I say. 

“Seemed to take you a pretty long time…” she says. “Were you shaving your vag?”

I cringe. “Stop, you’re nasty,” I say. 

“Had you never done it before?” she asks, following me towards my room. “Baby, you could’ve asked for tips. I would’ve-” 

“It’s fine, it’s over,” I say, emphatically, as I block the door to my bedroom. 

“Razor burn?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “It went fine.”

“Are you bald now?” she says.

I purse my lips. “No,” I say. “I left a very respectable, thin layer.” 

“To each their own,” she says, then begins to walk away. But before she can get far, she looks over her shoulder and says, “By the way, I still don’t believe that you’re not getting all pretty for a booty call.” 

“Booty call?” Alex says, interest piqued, as he comes around the corner. 

“Shut up,” I say, glaring in his direction.

But as I look at him, I realize he’s the only one in this house who can help me. He’s the only one who knows about Jackson, and the only one who knows I’m a virgin.

“Actually,” I say. “Alex. Come in here.” 

Addison shoots us a dubious look. “Are you guys fucking again?” 

“We - I - no,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I just need help with something.” 

“I’m helpful,” Alex says, gearing it towards Addison before turning and coming into my room. I shut the door behind us and he walks to my bed to sit down. 

“I’m freaking out,” I admit, standing in front of him. 

“What’s up?” 

I sigh and let my shoulders deflate. “I’m spending the night with Jackson tonight,” I say. 

He narrows his eyes, confused.

“Dr. Avery,” I clarify. 

“Oh, fuck,” Alex says, realizing. “Dude. Is that why you were in the bathroom so long? Double A wouldn’t stop bitching about it.”

“We have two bathrooms,” I grumble. 

“So, is tonight  _ the _ night?” he asks, sitting against the wall with his legs straight out. 

“I don’t know,” I say, opening a dresser drawer. “Don’t look.” 

He covers his eyes while I change into loungewear, and opens them again as I’m brushing my hair. 

“Do you want it to happen?” he asks.

I shrug. 

“If you don’t know, then you’re not ready, dude,” he says. “You know better than to force it.” 

“It’s not forcing…” I trail off. “We’ve done other stuff.” 

His eyebrows quirk. “Other stuff?” 

I can’t look in his eyes when I say it. “He’s gotten me off, uh… with his fingers. And we did oral for the first time the other day.” 

Alex’s eyes bug out of his head. “In his fucking  _ office _ ?” 

I blush red and my cheeks get so hot I have to press my palms against them. 

“Jesus Christ, A, you’re crazier than I thought,” he says. 

“So, I don’t know what’s gonna happen tonight,” I say. “But I want to look good. So, you need to help me by choosing an outfit and pajamas.” 

“You already know what pajamas,” he says, suggestively.

I suppress a smirk, because I knew he’d say that. Back when we were doing whatever we were doing, he bought me a pair of pajamas on a whim for seemingly no reason at all. It’s a matching set of shorts and a loose camisole - both deep gold, both satin. The shorts are short, as is the shirt, which keeps a strip of my belly open. To this day, I’ve never worn them. 

“Seriously?” I say. 

He gives me a look. “They’re fuckin’ sexy. If that’s what you’re going for, then yes. If you’re going for nerdy, then grab your Tweety bird pants and that awful fuzzy sweater that’s like a million years old."

“Shut up,” I say, and find the set. Without letting him get a good look, I pack it carefully in the backpack I’m bringing. 

I spend a few moments putting essentials in - my hairbrush, toothbrush, and lotion - then an outfit for tomorrow. The only thing left is to put on the outfit for tonight, and I have no clue where to start. 

“Should I wear a dress?” I ask. 

“Easy access,” he mumbles, chuckling. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” I snap. 

“Not at first,” he says. 

“Alex!” I shrill.

“Fine, fine,” he says. “A dress is nice.” 

“I don’t wanna look like I’m trying too hard, though,” I say.

“As you’ve spent all morning trying too hard,” he says. “Do you wanna smoke? It’ll calm you down.” 

“No,” I say. “I can’t smell like that going over to his house.” 

“He doesn’t know you’re a stoner, huh?” Alex asks. “What about… does he know you like to kiss girls when you’re drunk?” 

I roll my eyes. “I don’t even do that anymore.” 

“Because you haven’t been drunk in a while,” he laughs. 

“How’s it going with Izzie?” I ask, quickly. 

“Changing the subject,” he says. “Slick. But I see you.” 

“Have you asked her out yet?” 

Silence. 

“Talked to her at all?” 

Silence. 

“Alex!” I scold. 

“We’re not talking about me right now!” he argues. “We’re talking about you, and the fact that you’re kinda lying to this dude. Does he know you like to party? Fuck, A, does he even know you’re a virgin?” 

I lick my bottom lip and tug it into my mouth, then turn around to zip up my backpack. 

“Fuck a duck, he doesn’t know,” Alex says, surely. 

“Yeah, well, I just haven’t gotten around to it,” I say, still faced the other way. 

“Well, you might want to,” he says. “Because he invited you to spend the night. I know you’re not all that savvy with this kinda stuff, but when a guy asks you to spend the night, dude… that means something. He wants the puss.” 

“Alex…” I groan. 

“He does! I’m just being honest!” 

“You can be honest without saying words like that,” I say. 

“Whatever,” he replies. “You’re mad ‘cause you know I’m right. So, you need to be upfront if you don’t wanna fuck tonight. Because you going over there with an overnight bag tells a dude one thing… that you’re down to fuck.”

I don’t throw a snide comment or get quiet this time. I let his words soak in and actually listen. 

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll tell him. If it starts heading that way.”

“Good,” he says. “Is he gonna respect you? Do I need to be on-call?” 

I smile a bit. “No, it’ll be fine,” I say. “He’s…. Yeah. He’s the best. He’ll understand. It’ll be fine.” 

I turn back to my closet and flip through the dresses, pausing on each one as I decide. When I come across an off-the-shoulder black one with long sleeves and a short hem, Alex pipes up.

“That,” he says. 

“What?” I say, turning around with one hand still on the hanger. 

“That one,” he says. “I’ve seen you in that at a party, or something. Showing off the shoulders, sexy as hell. Wear your hair up.” 

I raise my eyebrows, impressed. “Alright, stylist.” 

He rolls his eyes playfully. “I’m not blind,” he says. 

I set out the dress and crawl on the bed to sit by him, then rest my head on his shoulder. He drops a kiss to the part in my hair, then hugs me with a few rough pats to my outer arm. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. 

“Yeah,” I murmur. 

“You still wanna go, right? ‘Cause if you don’t-”

“No, no,” I say. “I do. Really bad. I’m just… I’m nervous as hell.” 

“Well, yeah,” he says. “You like this dude. Makes sense to be nervous.” 

We’re quiet for a moment, just breathing together, before Alex speaks again. 

“Is he a freak?” he asks. 

“What?” 

He snorts. “Like… is he into kinky shit? I know you haven’t gone all the way… but like, you gotta know. Does he ask you to call him ‘daddy’ or something? Tie you up and shit?” 

I pick up my head and look at him, wide-eyed. “Daddy?” I say. 

He shrugs. “It’s a thing. No hate. I’m just curious.” 

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “Not that… no, I sometimes… Alex, no! Why am I talking to you about this?” 

“Because I’m your best friend in the world, and the only one you can talk to about your boy toy.” 

I scoff. “Whatever,” I say. “No, I don’t call him ‘daddy.’ Sometimes, I don’t know. I call him ‘professor,’ you know, when he’s… yeah.” 

Alex looks intrigued. “Sexy,” he says. 

“I guess…?”

“Maybe you should try the ‘daddy’ shit,” he says. “Dude, yes, you should! It’d surprise the shit out of him that you even know about that! Please, do it. Oh god, please do it.” 

“I don’t know,” I say. 

“You’re already doing the dom/sub shit,” he says. “If you pull the daddy kink, he’ll love it. I’m tellin’ you.” 

“I don’t know, maybe,” I say. “But I already told you, I don’t think we’ll have sex tonight.” 

“It doesn’t have to be during penetration-” 

“Don’t say that word!” I shriek, and shove him hard. He falls on his side, laughing hard. “I hate you.”

“Nah, you love me,” he says, staying on the bed while I get up to change. 

…

Later, with a coat covering the dress and a backpack thrown over my shoulder, I’m heading out the door when I’m stopped by Addison and Amelia. Alex is in range, too, sitting on the couch watching TV. 

“Where ya goin’?” Addie asks.

“Uh, just out,” I say, one hand on the door. “I’m spending the night at my friend’s house.” 

As soon as I say it, I know I shouldn’t have. I should’ve texted them when it got late and dealt with it like that, so they wouldn’t be able to see my lying face. 

“You’re going to a dick appointment,” Addie says. “That’s why you set up shop in the bathroom this morning.” 

“No,” I say, quickly. 

“She totally is!” Amelia says. “It’s fine, A. Just be safe.” 

“I’m not going to - no, it’s not like that,” I say. “I’m just going over to Lexie’s.” 

They both raise their eyebrows. “So, you both turned gay for each other?” Addie asks. 

“I’m not - no, ugh,” I groan, shoulders deflating. 

Amelia gasps. “Oh, my god. I know why you’re being weird. You’re going to spend the night with my brother!” 

Seeing an out, I take it.

“Uh… yeah,” I say, moving my lips to one side.

Addie and Amelia throw their hands up. “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Amy says. “I mean, I don’t want to think about it, but you do you. Go ahead, you horny little bastard.” 

I roll my eyes. “Thanks,” I say. “Be back tomorrow.” 

“Use protection!” Amelia calls. “I don’t want little Shepherd-Kepners running around this townhouse!”

“Fuck off!” I shout, and head towards the train to travel downtown.

…

I find my way to Jackson’s apartment relatively easily, and on the elevator up I can’t stand still. I pace from side to side, wringing my hands, and hope I don’t make a fool of myself. Tonight has to be perfect.

This is the first time we’re seeing each other out of school. It means something. 

Jackson knew I was on my way up, so he’s waiting at the door when I exit the elevator. 

“Hi, beautiful,” he says. 

I blush instantly, then tell myself to breathe. The whole night can’t go like this; I have to retain some control of myself.

“Hi,” I say. 

“You make it here okay?” he asks, as I approach him. 

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “Anyone give you any trouble?” 

I shake my head, pushing my hair out of my face. “Nope,” I say.

“Good,” he says again, then cups my jaw in his hands. They’re warm, soft and strong as he uses his thumbs to stroke my cheeks. “It’s so nice to see you.” 

I smile, cheeks squishing. “You, too,” I say. 

Looking into his eyes, all I’m able to think about is what he doesn’t know: I’m a virgin. 

Alex’s words ring through my mind:  _ When a guy asks you to spend the night, dude… that means something. He wants the puss. _

I gulp subtly. Tonight will be interesting. 

“You okay?” Jackson asks, leaning in to kiss me softly. I reciprocate, closing my eyes as our lips press together, and take a deep breath.

“Yeah,” I say. 

He nods and says, “Alright. Come on in.” 

He leads me by the hand through the door, and I look around to see an immaculate, modern space. It’s extremely clean and decorated smartly, black and white everywhere. Instead of soft cushions and worn-in furniture like the townhouse, everything here has sharp edges and shine. It’s different than what I’m used to, but I like it. 

“Nice place,” I say, clasping my hands at the waist. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Let me take your bag and coat.”

“Oh, right,” I say, then shed both. I hand him the bag and unzip my jacket, and when it’s off, he doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s staring.

“You look great,” he says, eyeing my shoulders - left bare by the cut of the dress and my tied-up hair. “You look… amazing.”

“Thank you,” I say, smoothing over the material.

He puts my things away and I stand in the same place, not knowing where else to go. I know I put it upon myself to make dinner, but now I wonder if that was presumptuous. This isn’t my kitchen, I don’t know where things are, and I’m not sure if I’m comfortable taking control. 

But, almost as if reading my mind, Jackson nods in its direction. 

“I laid everything out for you,” he says. “And if you want help, I’m here. But if you want me to stay out, that can be done as well.” 

I chuckle softly. “Okay,” I say. “Um…” I glance around. “I don’t want to stain my dress. Do you have an apron, by any chance?”

“I do,” he says, then pulls a stylish dark green one from a nearby drawer. “I thought of you.”

“What, you mean you don’t wear this when you cook alone?” I ask, draping it over my head. 

He laughs a little, walking behind me to tie it up. He takes his time, fingers grazing the small of my back as he goes. And when he finishes, he doesn’t move. His hands explore for a moment before landing on my ass, where he squeezes both cheeks tight and makes wet heat pool between my thighs. 

“Watch yourself,” I breathe, leaning forward with my hands on the counter. 

“How do you expect me to resist you in this dress? This apron?” he asks, voice low. 

I turn around, now pinned against the counter by his impressive size. 

“I don’t know,” I say, then run my pointer finger along the path of buttons leading down his chest. “But you’re going to be a good boy and wait ‘til after dinner.” 

His pupils widen before he kisses me. While he does, one hand maps across the back of my neck, holding strong where he’d usually take a fistful of my hair. But he can’t tonight, because of the bun it’s in. 

I take a deep breath after we part, unsure of how much truth my words hold. I’m happy to fool around with him tonight, more than happy to give and receive a few orgasms. I can’t have him thinking I plan on going all the way, but I don’t know how to bring it up. 

After a few seconds of confused deliberation, I decide that when the time is right, it will present itself. 

I do all the work with dinner and send Jackson to sit at the bar, facing me. I didn’t realize how much I would like the feeling of cooking for him, being so domestic while he watches. Even as I complete the most simple, mundane task, his eyes are warm and steady. They never break. 

“You’re staring,” I say, bent over to put the chicken in the oven. 

“There’s a nice view,” he replies, smoothly. 

I close the oven door and look back at him. “You’re feeling a little spicy tonight,” I say, eyebrows up. “Usually it takes you a while to get talking like this.” 

He beckons me closer with movement from one finger, and I obey. I walk to him and stand between his parted knees, and he runs his hands up my sides before dropping his lips to the freckle in the middle of my chest. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. 

I run my fingers through his hair and get lost in the feeling of being worshiped. I could get used to this - and in fact, I have.

“Me, too,” I agree. 

I finish cooking as we exchange light conversation that grows deeper once the meal is ready. We talk about old books from class, and new ones, too. By the time we sit down, we’re onto the subject of recreational reading.

“What’s your favorite novel?” I ask. “Nothing school-related. Different than that.” 

He sits for only a moment before standing up again. “Red or white?” he asks, standing in front of a wine rack I hadn’t noticed. 

“Red, please,” I say, and he pours us each a glass before bringing them over. He sets mine in front of me and I tip my chin to look at him. Pausing a moment, he holds my jaw lightly and kisses me, leaning in for only a moment before going to sit back down.

“ _ The Sound and the Fury _ by William Faulkner is one of my favorites,” Jackson says. 

“Oh, I’ve read that,” I say. “It was moving. I can see why you’d like it.”

He nods, and goes to take a forkful of chicken parmesan. But before he can, I stop him.

“Wait,” I say. “Let me. The first bite, let me give it to you.” 

I reach across the table and twirl his fork around before raising it to his mouth. He closes his lips around the tines, keeping steady eye contact with me before pulling off. 

“Delicious,” he says, after swallowing.

“Good,” I say. “I tried.”

“You succeeded,” he says, then takes a sip of wine. “So, answer the question for yourself. What’s your favorite recreational book?” 

“ _ The Book Thief _ by Markus Zusak,” I say. “No contest.” 

“Oh, really?” 

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Have you read it?” 

He shakes his head. “I can’t say I have.” 

“You should,” I say, taking small bites. I did a good job, but my stomach is in knots. It’ll be hard to keep anything down, and I don’t want to ruin this night with indigestion. “It’s beautiful. It changed the way I look at the English language, words, and life in general. It changed me.” 

He blinks at me, eyes warm. “I know how that feels,” he says. 

I blush and duck my head, taking a sip of wine to give my hands something to do. 

“The cool thing is that Death is the narrator,” I say. “And it makes you see it as a natural, sentient thing. Death wasn’t villainized, it was humanized if anything. It was a beautiful character, with complex feeling and emotion I’m not sure I comprehended before reading this book.” 

I shake my head, diving further into my explanation. 

“One of the book’s themes is colors, which is important. And throughout the novel, Death mentions how incomprehensible humans are.” I look up and meet Jackson’s attentive eyes. “How can we be so kind, yet cause so much suffering and destruction? He likens us to colors - we are ever-changing, and can often be murky with our behavior and intentions.” 

My words spark a new thought. 

“Jackson,” I say, feeling bold somehow. “What are your intentions with me?” 

He blinks once, eyes sober. “To give you the world,” he says. “And to show you everything beautiful inside it.” 

...

After dinner, he suggests we watch a movie. My nerves don’t die down, but confidence does filter in as I become more comfortable in his living space. 

“I’ll change into my pajamas,” I say, after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen. 

“I’ll do the same,” he agrees. 

In the downstairs bathroom, I strip off my dress and slip into the silky material of the shorts and camisole combo. I look in the mirror, take my hair down from its bun, and touch up my face. I’m not wearing a bra, and the outline of my nipples are visible through the satin. I can’t wear underwear with the shorts, either, so when I turn around, there’s a good view of my ass, too. 

I hope Jackson’s thought process follows Alex’s, and that’s the first and probably last time I’ll ever think that.

I walk to the living room in bare feet, seeing he’s already on the couch, flipping through movies. 

“What do you like?” he asks. “Action? Romantic comedy? Horror?” 

I come around the side, in his view now. “I’m okay with whatever,” I say, and he turns to look at me.

His Adam’s apple bobs as his eyes roam my body. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs.

I stay standing, feeling the draft on my legs, stomach, and shoulders. I’m seemingly frozen in place. 

“Come sit,” he says, extending an arm over the back of the couch and welcoming me to his side. 

We end up agreeing on Silver Linings Playbook, and I settle against his body. He keeps that arm wrapped around me, stroking my shoulder softly, and I rest one on his thigh. 

A bit into the movie, though, I can’t ignore the bulge in his sweatpants. I glance at it while his eyes are on the screen and adjust my position a little to touch it, just slightly. 

He shifts, probably chalking it up to an accident. But I do it again, to communicate that it was far from a slip of the hand. 

We make eye contact and he raises his eyebrows. I lick my lips, blinking slowly, as I trail one hand up his chest to softly grip the front of his neck. 

“Jackson,” I say, smirking at his eyes on my lips. “Just kiss me already.”

He doesn’t waste any time after that. In one fluid motion, he traps my body under his on the couch and rests his weight against me. He’s heavy, but it’s not anything I can’t take. 

I open my mouth and invite his tongue inside, and he explores my body with his hands. They land first on my chest, one over each breast, where he squeezes - generous and rough. A moment later, those fingers slip beneath the satin material and are on their way higher before he stops himself. 

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, fingers antsy. 

I nod. He pulls up the material so it rests on my collarbones and my chest is bared for the first time. 

“Shit,” he murmurs, stiff erection insistent against my inner thigh. “You don’t even know… they’re fuckin’ perfect, princess.” 

Princess. I clench my thighs and trap his body between them, trembling as his lips lower to my right nipple. When he envelops it, tongue flat, warm and wet against the hardening bud, my eyes roll back and I weave my fingers through his hair to ground myself. 

“That feels so good,” I breathe. 

I’ve never had my nipples sucked before, and I had no idea what I was missing out on. He knows exactly what he’s doing; how to use his tongue, lips, and teeth. There’s not a single inch of my breasts that goes untouched. 

He leaves them bruised and covered in hickeys. While his tongue is gentle, his lips and teeth are not, and the skin there has never been handled before. It’s smooth, creamy, pale - even paler than the rest of my body - and vulnerable. When he’s finished, red welts are scattered in circular patterns around my nipples and the dusty pink rosebuds are puckered up tight. 

My heartbeat is folded between my legs, beating hard and hammering as a constant reminder of its presence. 

When he leaves my chest, he moves lower to drag his mouth over my stomach. The peach fuzz stands on end as he ghosts his lips through it, eyes closed with his hands planted on my hips. Once again, he worships me. I’ve never been treated like this.

“I want to take you to my bedroom,” he says, voice husky. 

I inhale sharply, causing my stomach to push out. I sit up a bit and he follows; we’re now at eye-level with each other. 

“Okay,” I agree, adjusting my shirt so it covers my top half again.

He stands up from the couch first, extending his hand for mine. His fingers envelop my small palm, and we walk to his room without any stray conversation. When we get there, he turns the light switch dimmer up halfway so I can see his huge, white bed next to the window overlooking the city.

“What a view,” I say, taking a few steps closer. 

“But mine’s better,” he says, and I find he’s looking at me. 

“You’re very cheesy when you want to be, Dr. Avery,” I say, batting my eyelashes. 

“Only for you,” he says, and guides me to the mattress. “Lie down,” he directs. “On your stomach.” 

Without arguing, I comply. I scoot to the middle of the bed and lie there with my cheek resting on my folded arms, and wait for him to make a move. 

I don’t wait long. Within seconds, he’s on the bed, too. Then, he’s on top of me, hovering. He doesn’t set his weight down this time - the only part of his body that touches mine are his lips between my shoulder blades, then at the small of my back when he pushes the camisole up. 

“Your shorts,” he says. 

He doesn’t need to ask the question for me to know what he means. My head is cloudy and I’m so aroused that I’m barely thinking straight, and I want what he’ll give me. I need it. 

“You can take them off,” I whisper, and he follows suit. 

When my lower half is bare, he squeezes my ass cheeks in his hands and I close my eyes. I’ve never been touched in such a manner there, so fluid, so purposeful and time-consuming. He is thorough while massaging me, forcing me to press my forehead against my wrist and lift up my hips for more. 

“I’m going to do something to you,” he says, hands still moving. “That I’m sure no one else has done. If you want me to stop, speak up. And I will.” 

I nod shakily and he adjusts his position lower. He spreads me wide, and I feel the draft instantly as he pushes me up to my knees. Now, my ass is in the air with my face down towards the bed, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. 

When his mouth touches my core from behind, I gasp and let out a rattling breath. I arch my back to present more of myself to him, and he takes advantage of that by opening his mouth wider and slipping his tongue past my outer lips to reach the throbbing inside. 

As he takes care of me, my hips begin to move of their own accord. The gyrating is subtle, but present, and he chuckles softly. 

“Just wait,” he says, smacking my ass playfully. 

My body tingles with the sensation. 

Suddenly, he moves higher while never lifting his tongue, and swipes it along the divide until it reaches the other hole. My mouth opens wide and I stop breathing as my body goes rigid. 

“Oh…” I moan, sigh breaking at the end. 

He keeps moving. I must be soaked at this point because as his fingers move over my lips, the slick, wet sound they make is unmistakable. He never stops moving his head from front to back, not missing an inch as he simultaneously eats me out in both areas. 

I’ve heard of ass play, but only a little. Guys my age aren’t all that educated, and I wouldn’t have been able to learn from anyone else. I never knew it would be this good; I never knew the amount of pleasure the feeling of his tongue on my hole would give me. 

My hips falter from the sensation and fall a bit. He shoves an arm underneath me and props them up again, going harder with the path and rhythm that his tongue has found. My whole body shakes and I can’t keep my eyes open; every time he draws the path between my vagina and ass, it sends another shockwave through me. 

Using the hand attached to the arm supporting me, he stimulates my clit as he goes. Rubbing in tight circles, I don’t stand a chance. I force my hips back against his mouth as he concentrates on my ass, laving his tongue around the sensitive skin just rough enough to send me over the edge, screaming. 

“Fuck!” I yell, all pitchy. 

He flips me over while I come, body racking and bucking against the air. He yanks my thighs apart and attaches his mouth to my core, lapping up every last drop that seeps from my body while I continue to spasm around his tongue.

“Oh, god. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan, still experiencing my climax. It’s the longest one I’ve ever had, and I never want it to stop. “I can’t - I… I- yes, yes, yes… oh, my  _ god _ .” 

After it’s over, I lie there open and shimmering. With my arms splayed over my head, I track Jackson with my eyes and weakly return the smug smirk he’s wearing. 

“Did you like that, princess?” he hums, lips close to my ear.

I tremble and recall the conversation I had earlier with Alex in my sex-fogged mind. I lick my lower lip, bite it hard, and hold Jackson’s neck while I say, “Yes, daddy.” 

His lips part slightly as his eyebrows raise. When he lowers to kiss my neck, he asks, “Daddy?” 

Then, the doubt slithers in. I shouldn’t have said it. To him, it probably isn’t hot. It was weird, and he wasn’t ready. He hated it. 

“Sorry,” I murmur, embarrassed. “I just… I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

He lifts his head back up. “I never said I didn’t like it,” he says. “You just… you continue to surprise me, April.” 

I open my mouth in plans of telling him that it wasn’t my idea. But then, I realize that would only prompt further questioning as to why I’m talking about our almost-sex life to my friends, and I’m not prepared to answer those. I know for a fact Jackson wouldn’t like me airing out what we do, because he’s protective of our privacy and the fact that what we have is so delicate. I am, too, but I know Alex. And he’d take a secret of mine to the grave. Jackson doesn’t know him like that.

“I’m full of surprises,” I say, laughing softly while his lips find my nipple again. “And you… you really know what you’re doing.” 

“I’m experienced, yes,” he says, kissing a path to the middle of my chest where his favorite freckle lies. 

My eyes find their way to the ceiling, and a question I’ve halfheartedly wondered floats to the surface of my consciousness. 

“Jackson,” I say softly. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking this for any bad reason, I’m just curious. I promise.” 

He lifts up again and meets my eyes. I reach out and hold his jaw, running my thumb through his kept beard. 

“How old are you?” I ask.

Something flits across his eyes, something I can’t quite decipher. Maybe it’s the feeling of being put on the spot; maybe this is something he hoped I’d never ask. I can’t be sure. 

“36,” he says. “I turned in August. And you?”

It strikes me that I’ve never told him my age, either. “21,” I say. “April birthday.” 

He smirks. “Very original of your parents.” 

“Yeah, I know,” I grumble.

We’re quiet for a moment, and he kisses the corner of my mouth gently before moving to the slope of my jaw. His lips stay there for a while, dotting kisses in random patterns, before he speaks again. 

“Does it bother you?” he asks. “The age difference.” 

I frown. “No,” I say. “Does it bother you?” 

“No,” he answers. 

He sits up between my legs and adjusts them to rest on either side of his hips. My lower half is still bare, and that fact is blatantly obvious when he puts his hands on my thighs to situate my position. With how our bodies are posed, the next step is easy to visualize. If he were to take his pants off, penetration would only be inches away. 

My mouth goes dry, but I know I have to say it. And it might as well be sooner than later. 

“Jackson,” I say, spitting out his name in an unusual manner that catches his attention. “I have something else.” 

He looks curious. “What?” he asks. 

My eyes dart around the room, skirting his face. “I… uh…” I stammer. I clear my throat and wet my lips, though the moisture doesn’t stick. “My… I’ve never... “ I clear my throat again. “Okay. Sorry. I, uh… this isn’t easy for me to say. Obviously. I’m a…” 

I shake my head roughly and look him dead in the eyes. 

“I’m a virgin,” I finally say. 

He stares at me for a long moment, and I convince myself it’s all over. He won’t want me because I’m inexperienced, and because I haven’t been telling him the whole truth. This must be over; at least it was fun while it lasted. 

But I’m wrong. Instead of anger filtering into his eyes, realization comes instead. 

“April,” he says. “That’s not a bad thing.” 

“I-I know,” I stammer. “I just… I didn’t think you knew, and I wasn’t lying. It just never came up, and I was… I don’t know. I guess I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to think I was just some kid. We just kept going further and further and… I wanted to. I wanted all of this, I swear. It wasn’t like I’m making it sound. I want you so bad. But I’m just… all the way, I’m just not ready for that. And I don’t want to lead you on. So, if you don’t want to wait for me, that’s okay. I’ll-”

He stops me with a flat hand in the air. “Stop,” he says. “I’d wait forever for you.” 

I stare at him, floored.

“We’ll go at your pace,” he says, earnestly. “I can see how much this means to you. By no means would I ever put myself in front of your needs. That’s not how I work. When you’re ready, you tell me. And we can take it from there.” 

I’m still in disbelief. I’d expected at least a little anger, a little frustration. I can’t imagine what this scene would look like if it had been Derek in his place. He would have flown off the handle and stormed out of the room by now. 

“Really?” I ask. 

His eyebrows twitch. “Why do you sound so surprised?” 

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I just…” I shake my head. “You’re perfect.” 

He laughs sardonically. “No,” he says. “Don’t say that.” 

I don’t bother arguing, but I open my arms and welcome him into them. He helps me put my shorts back on and then pulls me close, spooning me from behind while wrapping me up in his grip. 

I kiss his knuckles slowly, one by one. I’ve never felt so safe. My walls, that I’ve spent years building, are faltering. 

And I’m terrified. 

Behind me, Jackson pushes up the material of my satin shirt to tickle my back. His lips follow his fingers, and when the shirt rises high enough, I gasp softly. 

“What’s this?” he asks, tracing a thick line of skin parallel to my spine. 

It’s a scar I often forget about, not because it’s meaningless, but because I’ve spent an obscene amount of time and energy repressing it and others like it. 

“April,” he says, sounding serious. He runs the pad of his finger down the length, to where it stops at my mid-back. “What happened to you?

The air stops in my throat. Just minutes ago, I spilled a secret that I thought would be impossible to tell. But he granted me grace and accepted it, moving forward alongside it. Maybe this won’t be so different. 

Maybe, he’ll be the first person I tell. 

“Baby,” he says, firmly. 

I take a quick breath, releasing the hold I’d placed. 

“When I sinned,” I mutter, voice almost too quiet to catch. “My father made sure I repented.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ! 
> 
> This chapter contains graphic descriptions of childhood abuse. If that subject triggers you in any way, please proceed with caution or skip this chapter entirely.

**JACKSON**

In my life, I don’t have many connections. Meaning, the things I hold close have never been sentient beings. 

I value books and articles, social experiments and research papers. Unlike most men my age, I spend evenings alone poring over academic journals instead of decompressing with my girlfriend or wife. 

I’ve never been one to form such bonds. Since childhood, it’s been nearly impossible. 

But now, lying behind April and staring at the unsettling, jagged scar along her spine, I feel a surge of protective energy surge from somewhere deep inside and burst against the surface, exploding on top. 

April is precious and unique. She has the biggest presence of anyone I’ve ever known, but now I can’t help but wonder how much is fabricated. How much of her confidence is artificial, given this new information? What has she been forced to overcome to transform into the woman she is today? 

I grit my teeth together and close my eyes for a moment. She shouldn’t have had to become who she is despite someone else, or her entire family. They should’ve been lifting her up; they still should. 

As mine should’ve, too. But my story is not the one I’m presently worried about. 

I let my eyes roam across her body; her dainty shoulders, turned in, the subtle knobs of her spine, the soft way her side moves as she breathes. How could someone hurt her? How could someone hurt her, knowing how much damage it would cause? 

I let out a long exhale and try to relax, winding an arm around her middle to hold her close and let her know I’m not going anywhere. But, differing from only moments prior, she stiffens against my touch instead of melting into it. 

I pull my arm away instantly, being very familiar with signs and body language. I know when a person is on edge, agitated, unpredictable - and she fits the bill for all three right now. 

“April…” I begin, very softly. 

I pull her shirt down to cover the scar; not because I can’t look at it anymore, but because I assume she doesn’t want me to. 

“Usually, he hit me with something that didn’t leave marks.” 

Her voice is different. She sounds nothing like usual - high and breezy. This voice is low, speaking slowly, a dark twist at the edges. This voice has been dug up from years of repression, years of being buried, now unearthed to see the light of day.

I’m sure these memories were never supposed to rise to the surface. 

“I have three sisters,” she says, still faced the other way. “But he never laid a finger on them. Isn’t that funny? It was only me. I was the only sinner."

I swallow thickly, a sour taste rising from my gut to the back of my throat. 

“April, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say. 

“It could’ve been over anything,” she says, continuing like I never spoke. 

She curls into herself, tucking her body into a tiny ball. I don’t attempt to touch or console her - I know better than anyone how that does nothing in times like this. She’s past the point of creature comforts.

“If I used a tone he didn’t like,” she says. “Or wore clothes too revealing. If I wore a skirt with a hem above my ankles, he beat me.” She pauses for a moment. “With a board. There was a board that he kept hanging on a hook in the laundry room. Usually, my penance was one blow to the back. Sometimes more, if the sin was worse. And a lot of the time, he found more were necessary. If I asked ‘why’. If I tripped over my words reciting scripture. If I spoke at dinner, or hesitated to begin the prayer. I was taken aside and smacked.” 

Her arms curl further against her chest and she bows her head, curving her spine at a more circular angle. Her shirt rides up again and as I look closer, a handful of other, more subtle scars come into view. They’re small and light, not raised from the skin like the big one, but present all the same. 

“It was just me,” she says, voice growing weaker. “Just me, always. If one of my sisters did something wrong, they were reprimanded, but never hit. It was only me who got hit. I never figured out why he picked me.” 

She covers her face with her hands as her breathing comes with difficulty. I want to hold her, comfort her, but I don’t dare. I would never push those boundaries. 

“But everything we had relied on him! My mom didn’t work, and we weren’t allowed. He provided for our family; he made sure we ate, he made sure we had decent clothes. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have survived. But he’s the one who killed me. He fucking killed me.” 

Her body trembles with sobs, silent ones - more physical than audible. 

“So, how could I hate him when he gave me everything I had?” she cries. “Hate is a sin. I never hated him. I don’t even know if I hate him now, after everything that happened.” 

She turns over and I see her face for the first time. Tears drip down her cheeks and more are welled in her eyes, her cheeks are flushed and swollen. There’s a mania about her, paired with a nervous energy impossible to tie down. She had no control over anything during that part of her life, and recalling it only makes that feeling come back. 

I know it well. 

“That big scar,” she says, and a spit bubble pops between her lips when she parts them. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. That was an accident.” She shakes her head vehemently and sits up, legs folded. “He’d always stop before he made a mark.”

My stomach twists. I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear what comes next, but it’s her truth and she needs to speak it. It’s not my place to silence her after she’s spent so many years with a hand over her mouth. 

“We were in the garage,” she says, quivering. “I was 15. I remember it so clearly. The sawdust smell, how cold the ground was under my feet… I wasn’t wearing any shoes. I can still hear his voice... he was bent inside the hood of the car, fixing something. I was supposed to be handing him tools. It’s funny, I remember all these small details, but I don’t know what I did or said to make him so angry. All I can see is one minute, his hands are in the car, and another he’s wiping them on his jeans, looking at me with this… this purely evil look in his eyes.” 

She goes somewhere else. As she sits in front of me, her body is physically here but mentally, she transports back to Moline, Ohio, at age 15. 

“We weren’t close enough to the laundry room,” she says, entwining her fingers together tightly. So tight, the blood rushes from the skin and turns her hands paperwhite. “So, he grabbed the closest thing to hit me with. It was a board, not that much different than the usual one. But-”

She cuts herself off, breath hitching in her throat as she blinks hard and presses her lips together. She untangles her hands and covers her face, pressing her palms hard. 

“He smacked me with that board not knowing there was a nail attached,” she says, and I expected her to be crying, but instead her voice is flat. “It sliced the length of that scar. It dug all the way in. But it was an accident. He didn’t know.” 

All I can do is stare at her. 

“After he hit me, he started shouting. And he never shouted… that wasn’t his way. He put his hands on me and they came back covered in blood. I passed out after that, I don’t remember anything until I woke up in the hospital with 27 stitches.” 

She crosses her arms over her chest and rocks back and forth, seemingly trying to soothe herself. 

“I tried to be good after that,” she says. “He didn’t touch me for a long time. While my stitches were healing, I really thought things would turn out well. I kept my mouth shut and did everything right. All I wanted to do was to please him, to show I wasn’t mad at what he did because it was an accident. But the other board came back out after I was healed, for something I don’t remember. It could’ve been anything.”

Her eyes meet mine for the first time since she began. I’m gutted by their depth. 

“I have to tell you something,” she says, prefacing her statement like she hasn’t been baring her soul for the past couple minutes. I nod her along, and her lower lip trembles. “I can’t call you ‘daddy.’ I just can’t. I’m sorry, I know it’s not… that’s not what it means. But I said it and I thought about him, even though I really tried not to. I just wanted to make you happy. I just wanted you to think I was sexy, I thought it would turn you on. But I can’t do it.” 

My eyebrows tilt upwards as I lean close to her. “No, no, no,” I say. “April, no. You don’t have to, in fact, I don’t want you to. I want you to do things that make you happy. You don’t have to worry about pleasing me like that. I don’t… I would never ask you to do something that reminded you of…” 

I can’t finish the statement.

“Please, don’t be mad,” she whimpers, sniffling.

“Baby,” I say, my voice as soft as possible. “I’m not mad.”

She hiccups with a sob and covers her face, trembling while she moves her arms to hug herself. I want nothing more than to wrap her up and keep her safe, but right now I refuse to make an errant move. I don’t want to spook or trigger her; I want this interaction to go forward by her terms. I know how it feels to not have control of the one thing you can count on to control - yourself. It’s a dehumanizing, traumatic feeling. And it’s quite obvious she’s nowhere close to recovery. 

“What can I do?” I ask, feeling helpless. 

She lays down, faced away again. No matter how hard I try and resist, my eyes find their way to her back and I scrutinize the creamy skin for marks. I force myself to stop, though, after a moment, and continue to watch her. 

She falls asleep quickly, as far away from me as possible. I stay awake, staring at nothing, inundated with mental images from my own childhood, spurred by the tragedy of hers. 

My dark bedroom. My small body pressed against the wall, keeping away from the edge. The sound of the door creaking open, my hands shielding my eyes. A soft, seemingly unassuming voice. 

Other children my age were scared of the monsters under their bed. I was scared of the one who came through that door. 

I feel dirty and at fault, so I slip out of bed and into the bathroom. I turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand under it, scalding my skin past the point of pain. Pain brings me back to present; it doesn’t let me regress into my own swarthy memories. Right now, after everything April shared, is not a time for me to be the victim. That’s not a label I use for myself, anyway. I try not to think about my past at all, because nothing good comes of it.

When I’m finished in the shower, I go back into the bedroom and find April in the same position. She twitches in her sleep, not peaceful, but disturbed. She’s so far off to the side that it seems she might fall off at any moment, but I understand the need to crawl out of your own skin. When everyone else has had a piece of you, there’s none left for yourself. 

I don’t join her on the bed. Instead, I sit on the cold hardwood floor with my knees drawn up and watch the outside world through the window. I can’t bear to think about her being hurt, but I can’t get the mental image of the story she told out of my head. The board with the misplaced nail. The blood on her father’s hands, literally and figuratively. The stitches. The physical abuse that began all over again once she healed. 

No one helped her. Her mother had to have known, along with her sisters, and they let her remain an island. 

Tears prick the backs of my eyes while I turn over that thought; I’m not crying only for April. 

Silent hours pass. While the sky is still a midnight blue, she shifts on the mattress and says a few words in a whisper, ones I can’t hear at first. 

“Jackson,” she rasps. “Jackson, where are you?” 

I push myself up from the floor, crawling back onto the bed. I keep my distance, though, when I say, “I’m right here.” 

She flips over and opens her eyes to slits. “Where?” she says.

“Right here,” I say, and lie down with care. 

She scoots over and folds herself into my arms, pressing her face into my neck and wrapping her arms around my waist like vices. I hold her with equal intensity, my lips resting against the top of her head, my chest about to crack at any given moment. 

“You’re not him,” she says quietly, one hand gripping the dip in my side. “You’re not him.” 

I shake my head, knowing I don’t need to respond verbally. What I need to do is show her.

“You’re not him,” she whispers again. 

“I got you,” I say, running my fingers through her hair partly to soothe her, and partly because I’m now wary of her back. I don’t want to touch the scars and relight her spiral. “It’s me, and I’ve got you.” 

“You got me,” she says, in the tone of a mantra. “It’s you, and you’ve got me.” 

“I’ll never do anything to hurt you,” I promise. 

“It’s you,” she repeats. “And you’ll never hurt me.” 

…

_ He’s just a little boy. He has no idea what he’s talking about. They’re nightmares. Kids get nightmares, Catherine, all the time.  _

_ Are you saying we shouldn’t trust our own son? _

_ Who are you going to believe here, an attention-seeking 6-year-old or my father? Think before you speak. Neither of us have seen anything. He’s fine. _

Two lies. 

One of them had seen something.

And I wasn’t fine. 

…

In the morning, I wake up flustered. I’m covered in sweat, which tells me that the sleep I experienced was far from restful; my creaky eyelids tell me as much, too. My body is sore as if I’ve been thrashing, and April is still sound asleep with her head on my chest. 

Her side rises and falls rhythmically, signaling her deep slumber. Her hair has fallen in her face, but I don’t move it away in fear of waking her. I want her to stay this peaceful for as long as possible. 

The arm under her is numb, so I do my best to tug it out gently. But, in doing so, I manage to accomplish what I had set out not to do. Her eyelids flutter and she inhales deeply, pushing away to stretch her arms forward. 

“Morning,” I say, accepting the fact that I woke her. 

She opens her eyes fully and blinks at me, clearing her head. Probably reminding herself where she is and where she spent the night. I practically watch last night’s happenings come back and replay in her eyes before she opens her mouth. 

“Jackson,” she says, rubbing her eyes. She sits up, shoulders hunched forward. Her body language is exhausted. “I’m sorry about last night.”

I shake my head. “There’s no reason to apologize,” I say. 

“Well, yeah, there is,” she mutters. “I really unloaded on you.” 

“You needed to,” I say. “If we’re going to be together, there are things I need to know. Boundaries are important, April, and I always want to abide by yours. If I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable, I need you to tell me. I mean, Jesus, of course it was painful to hear. But I imagine it was much more painful to live, and having another person to share that with can only be a positive experience.” 

She looks at me with warmth in her eyes, so much more open than they were only hours ago.

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known, Jackson Avery,” she says.

“How do you mean?” I ask. 

I lift my hand to stroke her face, but then second-guess myself and pull back. Catching the motion, she grabs my wrist and seeks out my touch, directing my hand to her cheek. I caress her skin and she leans into me, holding that hand with one of hers. 

“You just are,” she says. “I’ve never had a decent romantic relationship. I don’t think I know how. But with you, there’s no thinking. No calculating. No trying to predict your next move before you make it. I can just be with you, no games or ulterior motives.” She shakes her head a bit. “I don’t know how to just  _ be _ around men. It’s only been like this with you and my best friend, Alex, who you met. He’s a really good guy, too. But even with him, I don’t feel this safe.” 

She takes a deep breath and keeps a good hold on my hand. 

“I make a lot of mistakes,” she says. “All the time. With the people I put in my life and the relationships I choose. I was never taught how to pick the right company, and most of the time I’m too trusting.” She sighs. “And I know it’s really, really soon… but I think I did it right with you.” 

I smile, and she returns it. 

“I find myself leaning in the opposite direction,” I say. “I don’t trust easily. It’s been a constant problem in my life.” 

“Do you trust me?” she asks. 

I don’t need to think it over; I already know the answer. 

“Yes,” I say. “Very much so. There was never a time when I didn’t.” 

She crawls a bit closer and rests her head in my lap, long hair splayed over my bare legs. Its softness ghosts over my skin, and I weave my fingers through it to pare it away from her pretty face. 

“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asks, looking vulnerably up at me. 

She reaches and gently touches my chin, holding it between her thumb and first finger. I take her wrist and kiss the inside of it before bending in half to kiss her lips, sideways. 

“I didn’t,” I say. 

Her mouth edges into a grin because she knows what I mean. I didn’t, not before I met her. But upon meeting her, coming together with her, everything changed. My life was flipped around, inside out, because of the presence of one tiny girl who I still have so much to learn about. 

“Me, neither,” she says. “I never thought I’d find someone like you.” 

She puckers her lips and I give her what she wants. She smiles against my lips and holds the back of my head, growing more passionate, as I lick her lower lip. Interrupting us, though, her stomach growls. 

“Hungry?” I ask, sitting up. 

She chuckles. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

April tries to convince me to let her cook, but I won’t. She made dinner last night, so I insist on feeding us this morning. While she sits at the bar in that same tantalizing pajama set, I cook waffles and eggs in my boxers and a t-shirt, stealing glances at her every once in a while. 

“Ooh, do you have chocolate chips?” she asks, hands poised excitedly by her face. “I love putting those in the batter.” 

“Comin’ right up,” I say, kneeling to grab the bag out of the lazy susan. 

I put a beautiful plate of breakfast in front of her, and she digs in hungrily. I noticed last night she didn’t eat much and couldn’t help wondering if she’s a light eater, but this morning tells me differently. I smile as I watch her take generous forkfuls and chew with a smile on her face. This happiness, though a few notches quieter than usual, is welcomely accepted in contrast to last night’s heaviness. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking about something I’ve never been able to bring up with anyone else,” she says, putting down her glass of orange juice after taking a sip. “But I believe that wounded people have a sort of sixth sense when it comes to finding each other.” 

She looks at me pointedly, the smile dropped from her lips. She’s completely serious now. 

With one hand still wrapped around the clear glass, her eyes are steady. She is unwavering, unfaltering, while on the inside, I’m completely the opposite. 

“Jackson,” she says, softly. “What happened to you?” 

I clear my throat, feeling every metaphorical door in my brain slam shut with such powerful intensity that I’m surprised she can’t hear them on the outside. Slam, slam, slam; every corridor that held the memories begging to filter into my consciousness last night get shut out and banished, into the darkness where they belong. 

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. I can tell by her expression that she knows she isn’t wrong. But that doesn’t stop me from fighting it. 

“I can tell,” she says. “I told you the most shameful thing about my past. I’ve never told a single other person, but you make me feel safe. I want you to feel safe, too. Let me be there for you like you are for me.” 

I blink hard and fixate on a spot on the wall. The framed picture behind her is crooked, and I can’t tear my eyes away. 

I scratch my head neurotically. “That’s presumptuous of you to assume,” I say, shoulders growing taut. “You shouldn’t project your pain, April.”

Creases appear on her forehead as she sits up straighter. She stops eating and looks at me with fire in her green eyes. 

“What?” she snaps. 

I don’t match her smoldering demeanor; instead, I stay calm. I’ve found that getting angry never helps the situation, only escalates it. And that’s not what I intend to do. 

“Just because you had a traumatic past and I was able to comfort you, doesn’t mean I had an equal experience,” I say, voice even and controlled. “We aren’t the same at our core.” 

She opens her mouth, not saying clear words although she tries. She keeps sputtering and stammering, becoming more flustered with each passing second. 

“I don’t like that way you said that,” she says. “I’m offended you’d think, in any way, that my pain defines who I am.”

I meet her eyes and attempt to ice her flames. “Obviously it does, in a way,” I say. “Have you ever considered therapy?”

“I’m not crazy!” she lashes out, face turning red. “I told you because I thought I could trust you, not because I wanted a lesson on how to handle it.” 

The first comment sits with me, sedentary and persistent. “You don’t have to be crazy to go to therapy,” I say. 

“I know,” she says. “But you think I’m crazy. You think my father messed me up for good and that I need to see a shrink to fix me.” 

I shake my head. “You’re wrong. April, you think you know what’s going on in other people’s heads. And most of the time, you’re right. You’re smart, and you’re used to being quicker than most. But you don’t know what’s going on in mine, and I’d appreciate if you stopped assuming.”

I set my shoulders straighter. 

“Therapy isn’t for crazy people, and that’s not a term you should be using, anyway, in regards to this situation. The mental illness spectrum is wide and complicated. Lessening it to a single word is derogatory and antiquated. I expected better from you.” 

She storms up from the table, pushing out her chair loudly. But after she stands, she doesn’t go anywhere.

“You’re not my professor right now,” she growls. “So, stop acting like it.” 

“I won’t stand by and let you insult me,” I say, growing defensive now. 

“How did I insult you?” she shrills. “How is this in any way about you?” 

“I go to therapy,” I say, one hand flat on my chest. “27% of adults have received mental health treatment in the past two years. That’s 59 million people. So, please excuse me if your generalization hit a little too close to home.” 

She pauses, lips parted, realizing how her words stung.

“Oh,” she says, backing off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” 

“I see that.” 

“I just…” She looks towards the ceiling, blinking rapidly, probably fighting off tears. “That was never an option for me. Obviously, growing up. And to be completely honest, I don’t know much about it because I never learned. My best friend, Alex, is the one I tell everything to. I know it’s not the same, but he’s kind of been the ‘therapist’ figure for me over the past few years.” 

I sigh, dissecting her words. This isn’t the first time this Alex character has come up over the past handful of hours, which tells me he does, in fact, play an important role in her life. She seems to depend on him for a lot; he seems like a good friend. I’m glad she has someone like that in her life, but I can’t help wondering just how much she’s confided in him. 

“Does he know?” I ask, point-blank. 

She falters. “What?” 

“Alex,” I clarify. “Have you told him about us?” 

A split second passes where she considers lying; I see it flash across her face. But ultimately, she caves and tells me what I already knew. 

“Yes,” she says. 

I open my eyes wide and clench my jaw, vowing not to get angry. Not to blow up at her or explode, because that will solve nothing. If I’ve learned anything from the years spent with my previous therapist, it’s that. I won’t take out my anger on her, because she’s not who I’m angry with. I’m upset with the situation, and the last thing I want is to scare her. 

So, I stay quiet for a while. I have to let the thoughts boil inside my head until they bubble over and scald the surrounding surfaces, which opens the floodgates and lets the intrusive thoughts in. 

In my life, control is important. I control my diet, my work schedule, my lesson plans. I control my behavior, my exercise regime, and my relationships. But now, sitting across from the girl who has both ruined and rebuilt me, I feel more out-of-control than I have in years. 

My career is in jeopardy with a third party knowing about us. The career that I’ve spent years creating, the reputation that has cost me thousands upon thousands to retain the education to back up, the life that I’ve so meticulously crafted, could come tumbling down if something were to go wrong. If mine and April’s relationship were to become public knowledge - whether that be due to Alex or Owen opening their mouths - my life would be over within seconds. I would be tried and possibly sent to prison. And even if that weren’t the end-all-be-all, my position at University of Chicago would most definitely be terminated and I would never get another like it.

Moreover, my career isn’t the only thing on an unstable foundation because of her. I’ve never experienced the way April makes me feel before - physically, emotionally, or otherwise. In the past, I’ve kept an even-keel because I was forced to. I didn’t know another way. Personifying the surface of a placid lake was how I kept my sanity, but now the breeze she brought has forced waves upon my shore, slamming against the sand with each new sentiment and sensation. With her, I feel elation, excitement, and renewed life. When she’s gone, I miss her presence and her face never leaves my mind. 

My life suddenly centers around someone other than myself, and with that, there’s no bigger way to lose control. 

I glance up and notice how tense she’s become. Her eyes haven’t left me; they’re trained on my face with fearful anticipation, waiting for me to yell and punish her. If she hadn’t told me everything last night, I would’ve thought her caution an overreaction, but now it plants a stone in my gut - heavy and residual. 

Anger triggers her, and she’s terrified of what I’ll do. Not because I’ve done anything in the past, but because that’s the only response to frustration that she knows - physical beatings. 

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to calm down. 

I push my worries to the side for now. She is more important than all of them combined. 

“It’s fine, baby. Come here.” 

I wave her over to the couch and we leave our unfinished breakfast plates on the table. I welcome her onto my lap and wrap my arms tight around her, and she buries her face in my neck. She doesn’t cry, maybe because she has no tears left. Instead, all she does is tremble. 

“We don’t need to fight,” I say. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you.” 

“Me, neither,” she says. “I’m sorry for what I said, about therapy. I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t think people who go to therapy are crazy. I don’t know why I said that.” 

“It’s okay,” I say, and mean it. 

“I’m sorry I told Alex,” she says. 

I shake my head and stroke her back slowly, running my pointer finger over the knobs of her spine. “You don’t have to keep apologizing,” I say. “I’m not angry with you, as long as you’re sure Alex won’t tell.” 

“He won’t,” she says. “He knows how important you are to me. He would never do that. I promise.” 

I nod, now rocking her side-to-side. I say, “April, I never want you to feel lesser.” 

She’s quiet, but I feel her blinking. 

“In this relationship. That’s not why I’m with you. I’m with you because you remind me of fire against a life that’s been very gray. In only a few months, you’ve shown me an artful existence that I’ve never known. I’m not with you because you’re young and fresh, and I need to get my thrills. I hope you know it’s so much more than that.” 

She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pressing herself even closer. 

“I know,” she whispers. 

I’m comforted in saying that, because it’s been on my mind for a while. I’m not pursuing her because I have a thing for younger women, or because I have a teacher/student fantasy. Those things pale in comparison against the real reasons as to why I care so much about her.

We’re quiet for a while, soothed by the other’s presence. That is, until she clears her throat and voices what must be running through her head. 

“You see a therapist, then?” she asks. 

I nod. 

“Will you tell me why?” 

_ I hear my bedroom door creak open.  _

_ I hear a low, muffled voice - so familiar - once it shuts and locks.  _

_ The lights never come on.  _

_ The side of my bed depresses as he joins me, though my small body is pressed tight as possible against the far wall.  _

_ Every night I caved on the promise I made to myself.  _

_ Every night I promised to be brave, and every night I couldn’t do it.  _

_ “It’s okay, this is our secret.” _

_ Secrets were supposed to be exciting. Secrets shouldn’t make a six, seven, eight, nine, ten-year-old chronically vomit. _

I wet my lips and inhale shakily, realizing my body has tensed around hers. She lifts her face to look at mine, possibly trying to coax me out from where I’d retreated. 

“Childhood,” I say, eyes floating as she softly grips my jaw with both hands. 

I shake my head to physically ward off those memories. I can’t recall them while I look at her; the two are incongruous. She’s the sweetest thing I’ve known, while the years’ worth of those snapshots sit rotting and stinking in the recesses of my brain. It takes all I have to keep them there, and it’s better for everyone if they stay hidden.

April strokes my cheekbones with her thumbs, searching my eyes. She can search all she wants, but there’s no way she’ll find what she’s looking for. I’ve had years to perfect my facade; I’ve spent so much time convincing others I’m fine that I convinced myself along the way.

She doesn’t pry, though, sensing now isn’t the time. Instead, she gently wraps her arms around my neck and lays her head on my shoulder, fingertips ghosting across the nape of my neck. 

“I won’t let it hurt you,” she says. 

I force a weak smile, though she’s not looking at my face. “You don’t have to worry about me,” I say. 

“No, listen,” she says, adamantly. “No matter what happened, it can’t hurt you anymore. I won’t let anything touch you now.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains graphic depictions of physical abuse. Proceed at your own discretion.

**APRIL**

While voicing intimate details from my past was heart-wrenching and terrifying, I feel lighter because of it. I’ve never said any of that out loud, to anyone. My family didn’t need to be told - they knew. Outsiders see me as I’ve painted myself, how I choose to project my persona. Pre-college, I was part of the freaky Kepner clan. And presently, I’m the fun party girl everyone wants to be around. 

I’m starting to realize I don’t fit the bill for either of those. Not really. 

The scariest thing about realizing that fact is it means, inherently, I’m not exactly sure who I am at all.

I tell myself it’s not something I have to figure out right now, today. Right now, all I have to worry about is the weight of Jackson’s head on my lap as we rest on the couch in front of the TV. 

Every now and then, I glance down at him. My hands never stop moving, whether that be to stroke his ear, his hair, or to trace the bow of his glasses. We haven’t spoken much since breakfast, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s one full of acceptance, a time of reprieve. 

A ton of information was aired between us. It needs time to settle. 

As his head grows heavier while he falls asleep, I watch him relax and my chest expands with warmth. It isn’t that I aired my trauma with just anyone, but him specifically. Though he didn’t respond the way I expected, I stand by the thought that wounded people have a way of finding each other. 

We didn’t meet by accident, that’s become blatantly clear.

When his eyes close, I bend at the waist and press a soft kiss to his temple. As he falls further, I gently remove his glasses and fold the hinges, reaching to place them on the coffee table.

He looks different without them. More vulnerable, softer somehow. The frown that was etched into his forehead all morning, sprung presumably by my words, disappears now. In sleep, he’s at ease. 

He adjusts slightly, turning more onto his side and reaching to cup a hand over my knee. I smile softly and lean my head back, closing my eyes as well. Though I did sleep last night, it was by no means restful. And now, with Jackson’s head on my thigh, I’m calmer than I’ve been since coming here. 

I wake up a while later and find myself alone on the couch. The TV is off and the apartment is silent, which causes a nervous feeling to rise in my gut that I didn’t give permission to be there. 

“Jackson?” I call, rubbing my eyes.

I look to the left, glancing at the long table behind the couch. On it, there’s a sheet of paper with his handwriting scribbled on it -  _ went for a run, back soon. -J  _

“Oh,” I say to myself, and draw my knees to my chest. 

It’s scarily quiet here. Unlike at home, where there’s always some sort of movement, this place is the opposite. It’s located downtown, but since it’s so high up, even the sound of traffic isn’t audible. It almost feels like I’m trapped in a glass bubble, completely alone. 

I’m not usually bothered by being alone. Most of the time, I find it grounding. But right now, while all of the memories are at the forefront of my mind, I can’t stand it. 

I close my eyes and press my forehead to my knees. I grip my shins tight and hug myself, breathing as evenly as I can. But even while I go through the exercises I’ve read about in self-help books, it doesn’t help the images from being conjured up again.

Not the same instance, not the one that gave me the scar. Newer, fresher memories rise to the surface, the last ones I have of my home life.

_ I’m 18.  _

_ I’d received a full scholarship to the University of Chicago in the mail months ago. Now, it was late July and move-in was only a couple weeks away. For the entirety of my senior homeschooled year and the summer to follow, I kept my mouth shut on the fact I was graduating soon. I knew better than to open it. I knew not to bring up the topic of change until it was basically already happening. That way, lesser could be done about it.  _

_ But as August came closer, the clock was ticking. I had to start getting things together, pack up my life, and prepare to go away. I didn’t have a ride and I didn’t have much money. I still depended so much on my parents, my father, to provide for me. I was allowed to work at the local library for a few hours each day, and I saved every penny, but it wasn’t much. I was fully aware of how little it was.  _

_ It was something, though. It was a pinch of freedom, and a pinch was more than I’d ever been given.  _

_ I wasn’t sure how to broach the topic. Before church was a bad idea, we weren’t allowed to speak then. During church was out of the question. Afterwards was silly, we’d go straight to bed. On church days, we stayed there from 8 in the morning to 8 at night.  _

_ My stomach churned as I approached my father in the den on the day I chose. I was sweating all over, not just my hands. He was sitting, hunched over, working at a piece of wood with a sharp knife.  _

_ “Papa,” I said, meek and mild like I’d been taught.  _

_ “Do you have a good reason for interrupting me, April?” he spat.  _

_ I usually wouldn’t interrupt him white he was whittling. Or doing anything, really. But it had come to where I had no choice. This was one of the only free moments I could see in the near future, and I had to catch it.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Papa,” I said, head bowed and hands folded. “I was hoping to talk to you about something important.”  _

_ He slammed down the piece of wood first, then the knife. I flinched at both sounds.  _

_ “Well,” he said. “Speak.”  _

_ “I-I…” I stammered, then cleared my throat. “I don’t know if you remember. But I got a scholarship from the University of Chicago a while ago, and I’m supposed to move to campus next month.”  _

_ I found the courage to raise my eyes and saw him staring at me, deadpan.  _

_ We sat in prickly silence for a few long moments. Me, submissive and waiting for him to push the conversation somewhere. His vibe was different, he was challenging me and expecting his mind to be read. But I was never able to. This was a game he often played because he knew I would fail.  _

_ “And I… and I… I was… hoping… you…”  _

_ “Spit it out, April!” he demanded.  _

_ I shrunk away, turning my head to the side. “I was hoping you and Mother could help me. Maybe drive me there. I could help pay for gas money, you don’t have to buy me anything, I can use all my old things. I can take care of everything else. I just don’t have a way… I don’t have a way to get there.” _

_ “And that’s fine,” he responded, instantly. “Because you won’t be going.”  _

_ I raised my head, genuinely confused. “What?” I asked, quietly.  _

_ He picked up the wood and knife again. “You won’t be going,” he said again, with the same tone and inflection.  _

_ I knew better than to ask why, usually. But this was different. This was my future, this was everything I dreamed of. This was my chance to get out of this house and get out of my life, start all over again with a new one.  _

_ I had no choice but to ask why. _

_ “I don’t know why you’re still standing here,” he said.  _

_ “Because…” I began. “I don’t… I don’t understand, Papa. Why can’t I go? Everything is paid for.”  _

_ “That’s not the issue,” he said, as if this has been a known fact for months. “The issue is that I won’t have my good Christian girl off at a school with vagrants and nonbelievers. I won’t have you associating with them, or them associating with you. You know what happens to girls who go to college, April. They become whores. And you’re not a whore, are you?”  _

_ “No, Papa,” I said, dutifully.  _

_ “I know you’re not,” he said. “And that’s why you’re staying here. With us.”  _

_ I swallowed loudly, still unmoving.  _

_ “Are your afternoon chores finished?” he asked.  _

_ I still had laundry to do and windows to wash, and I couldn’t lie.  _

_ “No, Papa,” I said.  _

_ “Then there’s no reason for you to still be here. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”  _

_ “I know,” I said. “But I still… I could make you proud, Papa. You and Mother, I could be the first in our family to go to college.”  _

_ He looked up at me and I wished he hadn’t. His eyes were burning. _

_ “Do you think you’re better than us?” he asked, and stood.  _

_ “No, Papa,” I said, caving. “I didn’t say that. I don’t mean that. I don’t think I’m better than you.” _

_ “Your superiority complex is a sin,” he said, towering over me. “You’ve always had it. Ever since you were a little girl, boasting in everyone’s face about all you could do. You know what, April? You’re not all that smart. You’re not everything you think you are. Even if you were to go off to college, all you’d do is disappoint me. Like you always have.” _

_ I started trembling. I always did when he came in my vicinity, threatening or not.  _

_ “I’m sorry, Papa,” I said. “I don’t think I’m better. I don’t.”  _

_ “God teaches us to be modest,” he said. “Hasn’t He taught you that, at least? What has He taught you? How can you think you’re the smartest person in this family if you can’t remember the teachings of God?”  _

_ “I do remember, Papa,” I muttered. “You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth-”  _

_ Stopping my words, he slapped me. Clear across the face, sending me toppling to the floor with my skirt bunched around my knees.  _

_ “Cover yourself,” he growled. “And come to the laundry room.”  _

_ “Papa, please,” I cried. “Please, don’t. Please. I’ll finish the Commandments, I’ll read from the-”  _

_ “Get up and march, I said,” he commanded. _

_ I got up and marched, forced to lead the way like always. As we passed the dining room table where Kimberly and Alice sat doing schoolwork, they caught my eye only to look away with shame. They knew, in times like this, to affiliate with me as little as possible. The last thing they wanted was to be dragged down with me.  _

_ He slammed the door to the laundry room and I retreated to the corner, where I’d been standing for as long as I could remember. I had the wallpaper patterns memorized in this specific spot, and knew where the floor would creak. There was a small mark faded white from where my forehead rested as he hit me, from years of wear.  _

_ I braced myself against the wall as I heard the paddle removed from the hook. My whole body quivered as always, though I tried to stop it. He hated it when I shook. Almost as much as he hated my crying.  _

_ “You’re not going away to that school, do you hear me,” he said, and I nodded.  _

_ He struck with the first blow, and I fell forward, elbows bent. It landed on the small of my back, urging my hips closer to the wall. I whimpered as quietly as I could, feeling the sting spread instantly.  _

_ “You won’t go away and become a slut,” he said. “All you’ll do is shame us. And ruin everything I’ve spent years culminating in you.”  _

_ The next blow hit higher, in the middle of my spine. My mouth opened in a silent cry, and tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I wasn’t sure if I could take another - the edge of my vision was turning black.  _

_ “And you won’t bring it up again, if you know what’s good for you,” he said, and smacked me once more.  _

_ Between the shoulder blades that time, the corners of the paddle digging in. My forehead knocked against the wall and I could barely catch my breath, With every errant move, the scratchy material of my dress irritated my now-raw back, and I didn’t dare move. He would tell me when I was allowed.  _

_ He flipped me around by the shoulders.  _

_ “Do you hear me?” he said, gruffly.  _

_ I couldn’t form words. I was crying too hard - tears and snot pouring down my face. He held my cheeks with one hand, squishing my lips together. I had no control; I was at his mercy. I was always at his mercy.  _

_ He brusquely shoved my head back so it hit the wall and slapped me again, harder this time. I tasted the blood before I realized what happened - he split my lip and caused my nose to bleed at once.  _

_ “I said, do you hear me?” he repeated, face inches from mine. _

_ “Yes, Papa,” I sobbed, cowering against the wall.  _

_ He hung the paddle back up, calm and smooth. With one hand on the doorknob, he didn’t turn back when he spoke.  _

_ “Pull yourself together,” he said. “Then go to bed. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.”  _

_ I did as I was told.  _

_ In bed that night, sore and bleeding, I knew I couldn’t take another beating. I’d endured so much, and I had hit my quota. I had to do something, even if it was a death wish.  _

_ I had to leave on my own. It was the most terrifying thought I’d ever had, but it was my only option. If I stayed any longer, someday he would surely kill me.  _

_ So, in the middle of the night as my nightgown brushed against my raw skin, I packed a bag. I took what little I could, got dressed, and didn’t bother with a note. I went to the bus station, bought the cheapest ticket to Chicago, and rode away to a new life that I wasn’t sure I would survive.  _

_ But I did survive. My scholarship covered on-campus housing, which meant I could use my extra money for new clothes. I didn’t have to wear the ankle-length dresses to class. I got used to a brand-new look; I changed everything about who I was, except my hair. I couldn’t bear to cut it.  _

_ My home life was horrible, but it was still home. It was all I knew. My hair would be the only reminder.  _

_ At Christmas, I called my mother after weeks of debating. But as I walked the streets of downtown Chicago and looked at all the happy families and decorations, a very romanticized version of her popped into my head.  _

_ “Who is this?” she asked, upon answering. I was calling on a cell phone I’d saved up to buy from my new job at the university library.  _

_ “It’s me, Mother,” I said, “April.”  _

_ A strange pause followed. I wasn’t sure how to fill it, and was suddenly afraid of what she’d say next.  _

_ “Merry Christmas,” I said. _

_ “And to you,” she said, tersely. _

_ We made a few awkward moments of small talk, but then I couldn’t hold back anymore. I’d made good friends in Addison and Amelia, and though I never planned on telling them about my abuse, they’d empowered me in other ways. Other ways that infiltrated to confronting my mother on her enablement of my father. _

_ “Mother,” I said, and stopped walking. “How could you let him do what he did to me?”  _

_ Her lack of response told me I didn’t need to clarify what I was talking about.  _

_ But even so, she played dumb.  _

_ “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” she said. “You’re going to have to be more clear.”  _

_ I cleared my throat, planning on specifying. But then, I realized it wasn’t worth it. Nothing would come of it. They painted over my existence as I would paint over theirs. _

_ I hung up the phone and haven’t spoken with any of them since.  _

The front door opens and Jackson walks in, sweaty and glistening. I’m frozen in place on the couch, unresponsive when he mutters a greeting before slugging down a water bottle. 

“April?” he says, noticing my silence. “You okay?”

I can’t open my mouth. I’m still stuck in Ohio, at the hand of my father. 

Jackson comes around to the front of me and kneels, putting himself lower. When he reaches to swipe his thumbs over my cheekbones, I blink into his face.

“Why’re you crying?” he asks.

I hadn’t realized I was.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and kicks off his shoes to climb on the couch with me.

Once he’s close, I wrap my arms around his muscular form. I press my face into his neck and hold there for a moment, soothed by his heartbeat. I’ve never had someone behave so gently with me, in such a caring manner, before him. 

“I’m all sweaty, I’m sorry,” he says.

“I don’t care,” I mutter, lips moving against his neck. “I’m just glad you’re back.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful. Did something happen? Were you scared?” 

I nod. It’s not a lie, he just doesn’t know what I was scared of. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he says. “I didn’t even think of that. I’m so sorry. I thought the note would… I shouldn’t have left. It’s just… I run. When my head is… but I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, baby. But I’m here now. Okay?” 

“Okay,” I whisper, and pull back. 

He looks at me earnestly, and I break the moment by leaning to kiss his lips. He kisses me back softly, holding the back of my head with one hand and my waist with the other, encouraged by the soft sounds I make. 

When we come up for air, he looks into my eyes and tucks my hair behind my ears. 

“Do you want to get some fresh air?” he asks. “We could go out and have lunch.” 

I nod slowly. “That would be good,” I say.

“Do you like beer?” he asks. “I know a great brewery.” 

“I do,” I say, smiling a bit. “I just… I would need to shower.”

He looks down at his sweaty state and says, “Me, too.” 

My mouth goes dry. I know there are two bathroom in his place, but I have the urge to suggest we take one together. I’m not brave enough to ask, though, and I have a feeling he doesn’t plan on initiating things with me anytime soon. Not after what all I voiced last night. So, if I want it, I have to make it happen.

I decide right now probably isn’t the best time. 

He clears his throat and stands. “Why don’t you use mine,” he says. “And I’ll use the guest one. There are clean towels in there, and the shampoo and conditioner are nice.” 

I smile and stand, too. “You don’t cheap out like most guys, then?” 

He takes my chin in his pointer finger and thumb. “When have you known me to be like most guys?” he asks. 

My body tingles and I chuckle breathily. He’s right. 

In the shower, I take my time washing the flashbacks from my body. I don’t want to think about them anymore. Over time, I’m sure they’ll get dealt with, but I’ve already had too much for one day. After four years of repression, having them come back as strong as they did is overwhelming, to say the least. 

When I come out, I wrap myself in the fluffiest white towel I’ve ever felt and squeeze my hair with its twin. He doesn’t have a hairdryer and it would be useless, anyway, with how long it takes on my hair. I let it air dry while I put on a bit of makeup, then tie it into a pretty bun. 

I’m still in my towel when I go back into Jackson’s bedroom to rifle through my backpack. I didn’t bring ‘going-out’ clothes for today, just loungewear, so I have no choice but to rewear my dress from last night. Luckily, I laid it out instead of folding or crumpling it, and it looks to be just fine. 

Before I can put it on, though, he walks behind me dressed in his own towel. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, hurrying into the bathroom after noticing our matching states of undress.

I follow him with my eyes, then my feet. I peek around the corner and find him in the closet, searching quickly for a shirt. 

“Jackson, you don’t have to apologize,” I say. “You don’t make me feel any type of bad way. I want you to see me like this. I’m comfortable with you. There’s no… just because I told you all that I did doesn’t mean anything changed between us. I still want to be intimate with you.” 

He looks over, gauging my words and how much truth they hold. I hope he can see that they’re solid and should be trusted, because I mean them. Being physically close with him makes me feel things, lights me on fire, in a way I haven’t ever let myself feel. And not only have I never let myself, I’ve never found someone who was capable of drawing those embers out from inside me. He’s different; he’s special. 

“I didn’t want to assume,” he says. 

“You’re not,” I say. “I’m telling you, straight out. You can touch me. You can still initiate. Things can be just how they were. You just… we just know each other a little better now.” 

He finds his way to a smile. “Okay,” he says. 

“Which means,” I say, tipping my head to one side to elongate my neck. “I’m gladly accepting more of these.”

I point to an obvious hickey on my pulse point, and we both giggle as I do.

“Noted,” he says, and I leave the closet to put my dress on. 

Jackson tells me we’re going to a place called Band of Bohemia, down by the United Center, which means we have to get on the Blue Line. On the walk there, bundled in winter coats, we hold hands. This is the first time, as an official couple, that we’ve done so, and it sends sparks through my entire body. 

I look up at him as we approach the Washington stop, at the top of the stairs leading underground. It’s just begun to snow, and particles are sticking to the top of his head. 

“Are you cold?” I ask, stroking his hand with my thumb.

He shrugs, playing it off.

“Here,” I say, and remove my winter hat which isn’t all that girly and reach to put it on him. 

“Oh, no, no,” he says. “This is yours. You keep it.”

“No!” I say, giggling. “You have no hair to keep you warm. Just wear it.” 

“But your hair is wet,” he says.

“Not anymore,” I say. “And I have a scarf. You don’t, silly. So, please, just wear this. For me?” 

He holds my eyes for a long moment, then finally concedes. “Fine,” he says. “But only because it’s very comfortable.” 

We get on the train and I lean against him, head resting on his shoulder. As we careen through the darkness below the ground, our reflection is easily visible in the window across. The size difference is noticeable, of course - he’s muscular and bulky and I’m smaller than average. But, in a way, we fit together just perfectly. Our hands don’t leave each other for the entire ride, and he plants a kiss on my hairline when it’s time to get off. 

The walk to the brewery isn’t long, but I find myself wishing it was longer because of our proximity. Jackson wraps an arm around my shoulders as we head down the sidewalk, and I make a bold move and slip my hand into his back pocket. I glance up, grinning, and love the fact that nothing about this is strained or awkward. We’re just us, being us, in public, away from campus, where no one can judge.

I see the building in the distance and press closer to him. I look up at his face again and he kisses me while we wait for a traffic light to change. 

“What?” he says, regarding my eyes on his face. 

I shrug. “I just like this,” I say. 

He tightens his arm. “What, this?”

I shrug again. “All of it,” I say. “Being out in the world and being able to do this. Like any other couple.” 

He smiles and kisses me again. “You’re cute,” he says.

“I know,” I say, giggling as I rub my nose against his. 

Inside the brewery is chic and comfortable, with low booths and high-backed plush chairs. We choose to sit at a table so it’s easier to look at each other, and make light conversation until the waiter comes to take our drink orders. 

“I’ll take the Noble Raven Ale,” Jackson says, glancing at the menu while the waiter writes his order on a small notepad. 

“And for you, miss?” he asks me.

“Um…” I say, eyes still trailing over each description. “I don’t know. Hmm…” 

“I think you’d like Honey Biscuit,” Jackson says, unobtrusively. He meets my eyes with a glint when he says, “Sweet.”

I giggle lightly. “Okay,” I say. “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll have the Honey Biscuit one.” 

The waiter looks at me pointedly. “ID, please?” he says. 

“Oh,” I say, and dig around in my purse until I find it. 

He takes a good, long look before handing it back. He leaves after that, without carding Jackson. It doesn’t go unnoticed by either of us. 

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” I murmur. 

“It’s fine,” he says, shrugging. “It’s fine.” 

“I promise you look young enough to card, babe,” I joke, and get a laugh out of him because of it. 

When the waiter comes back with our beers, he sets them down carefully in front of us. 

“Noble Raven Ale,” he says, serving Jackson. “And the Honey Biscuit, for the girl who definitely does not look her age.” 

“Oh,” I say, laughing a bit uncomfortably. 

“If that was a fake, I applaud you,” he says, winking. 

My stomach twists as I realize he’s flirting with me. I’m very used to it, and maybe once upon a time I would have entertained it. But now, it’s unwelcome. 

Then, I realize he doesn’t see that Jackson and I romantically together. That’s why it finds it appropriate to flirt with me in his presence.

“Sorry,” I murmur to Jackson after he leaves.

He reaches across the table for my hand. “No apologizing,” he says. “He should be the one apologizing, not you. You did nothing wrong.” 

I’m settled by that. I’m so used to being the apologetic one, even after years have passed, it’s a mold I’ve had a tough time breaking.

When the waiter comes back later with our food, I keep Jackson’s hand. And as the waiter sets the plates down, I don’t so much as look at him. Instead, I keep my eyes trained on my boyfriend. 

“Yours looks great, babe,” I say, playing it up.

I notice a change in the waiter’s vibe as he sets mine down. He looks at me for a bit too long, trying to decipher the situation. 

“Not as great as you,” Jackson says, cheesily. 

I fight an eye-roll because the waiter understands. The look on his face tells me everything. 

“Uh, enjoy,” he says, before walking away. 

We unlink our hands and laugh, digging in. 

“That’ll teach him to assume,” I say. “By the way, this is so good. Thanks for taking me here.” 

He nods. “I’m happy to take you to places you’ve never been,” he says. 

I can’t help but interpret the statement in a few different ways.

“You know, I was thinking,” I say, in the middle of eating. “I could bring  _ The Book Thief _ over and maybe, once in a while, I could read some to you.” 

He looks at me, and I can’t quite read the look in his eyes.

“I mean, I understand if you think that’s silly,” I say, shrugging it off. “I’m aware you can read. I just thought it was sweet, I don’t know.” 

“It is sweet,” he says. “You are sweet.”

I blush. 

“I’d love that,” he says. “Sitting on the couch in front of the fire, listening to you read. Nothing sounds better.” 

“Alright,” I say, smiling softly. “I can do that.” 

We talk for a while longer until an older couple comes in and sits down at a table near ours. I glance over at them a few times, finding them impossibly endearing. The old man pulls out the woman’s chair and makes sure she’s situated before sitting down himself. They trade reading glasses while looking at the menu and laugh over it, light still in their eyes. 

“I wish my grandparents were like that,” I say quietly, so they won’t hear. “Or my parents, geez. But my grandmother was a real witch. I never knew my grandfather.” 

Jackson’s entire demeanor changes. Instead of relaxed, his shoulders grow tense and rigid, lifting to hunch by his ears. When I turn to look at him, he can’t meet my eyes. Instead, he stares down at his half-eaten plate and sets his fork to the side, seemingly finished.

I crinkle my eyebrows, wondering what changed.

“Did you know your grandparents?” I ask.

He nods tightly, slowly. I try and read his face, try and see where this shutdown came from, but I have no clue.

“My grandfather,” he says. “Grandmother died before I was born.” 

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” 

“Me, too,” he says, and for a moment I think he’s done talking. But he’s not. “My grandfather is Harper Avery,” he continues. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him.” 

I think on it. “The name sounds familiar,” I say. 

“He’s the name behind arguably, the most prestigious medical award in the field right now, as it stands,” Jackson says, but his voice doesn’t sound proud. It sounds like he’s in pain, if anything. 

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That’s where I’ve heard it. I read about him for a class, or something.” 

He nods again. “I’m sure you have.” 

“Were you two close?” I ask. 

He turns his head to the side and flinches, seemingly at nothing. His eyes are on the floor, the blood flushed from his face; he barely looks like himself. I don’t recognize him.

“Honey, are you okay?” I ask, reaching across the table for his wrist. 

But in one swift movement, he slips it under to rest on his lap. His body, however subtle, is trembling. 

“Do you mind if I get the check?” he asks, very quietly.

“Sure,” I say, softly. “Is there anything I can do? I’m sorry, I don’t-” 

“It’s just my stomach,” he says. “Something didn’t sit right. I just want to go home. I’ll feel better if we can just go home."

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Okay.” 

As we get further from the brewery and closer to Jackson’s apartment, his demeanor switches back to what I’m familiar with. I don’t try and coax answers out of him, but instead I just stay by his side and let him know that I’m here and not going anywhere. I hold his hand the entire way home, walking and riding the train, and he kisses me casually once we close the door to his place. 

He heads toward the bathroom as I take off my coat. 

“I’ll be right out,” he says, and though most things about him are back to normal, his eyes are still swimming. 

As I walk towards his bedroom, the shower turns on, which I find strange. I try and shake it, write it off to something mundane, but the questions won’t leave me alone

As Jackson is in the shower, I start packing up my things slowly. When he comes into the bedroom, dressed in a towel, I’ve only put a few things in my bag. He changes into loungewear and lingers by the door, eyes on my back. 

A few moments later, he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses my neck once, then says, “I don’t want you to go.” 

I overlap his hands with mine, excitement coursing through my veins. “Me, neither,” I admit. 

“Then don’t,” he says, moving to speak against my ear. “Stay.” 

“Yeah?” I ask, tracing the veins around his knuckles. 

“Yes,” he says, and opens his mouth on my pulse point, over the day-old hickey in plans of renewing it. 

“Okay,” I say. “Just let me text my roommates. They’re probably wondering where I am.”

“What did you tell them?” he says. 

My eyes flash from my phone over to his in a split second, now that I’m sitting on the bed and he’s standing across from me. 

“That I was with Derek,” I say. 

“Who’s Derek?”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “Amelia’s brother,” I say. “Uh, old flame, you could say. I guess. Not really. Kind of. I don’t know.”

**SENT, 2:03pm-** hey guys. I wont be home tonight, just letting you know. 

I press send to the group chat that Addison, Amelia and I have. I get a response from both of them in less than a minute. 

**RECEIVED, 2:03pm (Addison) -** dang girl! Thx for telling us at least. Get urs!

**RECEIVED, 2:04pm (Amelia) -** uhhhhh wtf. Cuz i talked to derek earlier today and he said you arent with him and never were this wknd. Whats goin on april ? 

I let my fingers hover over the screen for a moment, wondering what to say. My stomach jumps with nerves; I obviously didn’t think this through as well as I should’ve. 

**SENT, 2:05pm -** dont worry about it. Im fine, im safe, im happy. I can explain when i get home. 

I say that, meaning I’ll have to think of another lie to cover my ass by the time I go home. But I’m comforted in the fact that they at least know I’m safe, so I turn my phone on Do Not Disturb mode and focus my attention on the man in front of me. 

We spend the day just being with each other, doing domestic things. I help him do laundry and throw some of mine in, and pull out his silly side as we’re folding. He’s highly amused by how small and lacy my underwear are, and I have to tackle him to get them out of his grip. 

We make dinner as a team, laughing and playing music in the kitchen. And when it’s finished, we turn on a movie and eat on the couch, leaned against each other. He feeds me a few bites of his and I hoard mine to myself, which he teases me for. 

When it’s time to go to bed, I put on the same pajamas from last night, but washed. I settle under the covers first and he finds me easily, wrapping an arm around my body from behind while kissing my bare shoulders. 

“Jackson,” I say, turning to look at him.

“Hmm,” he responds, against my skin. 

“Can we… do some things?” 

He smiles, winding that same arm lower to encircle my hips. “Of course,” he says. “What do you wanna do?” 

My breath rattles. I flip onto my back and he sits up a bit, pulling back to look at my face. 

“Just make me feel good,” I say, then wriggle out of my shirt and shorts quickly. “Then, I can make you feel good.” 

He smiles and bends to kiss my neck again, licking across my throat while one hand stays steady under my right breast, overtop my ribcage. He moves lower, pays attention to the freckle for a moment, then almost sucks my entire breast into his mouth. 

I run my fingernails over his scalp and let myself loosen up. He bites the soft skin around my areola, which makes me twitch and whimper, all the while gripping his hips with my thighs. 

“Breathe, baby,” he says, then slips one hand between my thighs. I’m pulsing as he rubs the heel of his palm against me, and my hips are tempted to find that friction and get more of it. 

He kisses my stomach slowly and deliberately. At first, with closed lips, tracing patterns across my raised ribs and the soft pocket between them. Then, he opens his mouth and flattens his tongue against my skin, sucking portions of it into his teeth to leave low hickeys. 

I writhe beneath his touch, and let out a long, satisfied moan when he finally makes his way between my legs. He manipulates them to his liking, bending the knees and forcing them up towards my face for a better angle, and holds them while he works. 

“You’re always so wet for me, princess,” he says, kissing the back of my thigh while rubbing one hand over my slick outer lips. 

“I know,” I whine, inhaling sharply as he replaces his hand with his mouth. 

He never breaks from me, and his kisses aren’t modest or neat. They’re messy, open-mouthed and complete with plenty of tongue. He moves his head rapidly from side to side with his tongue pressed deftly against my clit, and my hips start quaking of their own accord. 

“Oh, fuck…” I moan, pushing his head down further. I close my thighs in on his ears, but he doesn’t stop. “Fuck… fuck, Jackson, yes! Yes! I’m coming, I’m coming… I’m… you… oh god, oh god, oh god…” 

He sucks on my inner thighs as I ride out the aftershocks, then moves to kiss me. I taste myself on his lips and hold his head in place, kissing him rougher than I’ve been brave enough for yet. When I pull away, the lower half of his face is covered in fluids that came from me - saliva and otherwise.

After I’m stable, he takes off his underwear and I wrap one hand around him. He guides it with his own, showing me how fast and hard to stroke, and after I get the hang of it, he lets me work. He rests with his hands behind his head and gasps when I wrap my lips around the tip, tongue curling around the underside.

I keep eye contact while I blow him, sitting on his legs with my back hunched forward. He weaves one hand in my hair, pulling at the base of my skull in the way we both like, and closes his eyes.

When he comes, I pull away and let it spurt before gravity takes control and it slips back down his length. Before he can move, though, I kiss the shaft and collect what I can, cleaning and licking him even as he grows soft. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and pulls me up to rest on his chest.

We kiss for a long time, until our lips are sore and red. When I can barely take any more, I caress his face and say, “I know it might seem silly to you… that I still call myself a virgin.” 

He searches my face. “It’s not silly,” he says. “None of your thoughts are silly.” 

“Well…” I say, rubbing my nose against his cheekbone. “I’ve done everything else. It’s like, a little old-world to still classify myself as a virgin. But I do.” 

“And I support that,” he says.

I run one hand down his chest. “I want you to be the one to take it,” I say. “Whatever’s left, I mean. You know what I’m trying to say. I mean, I want us to go all the way. Soon.” 

He kisses my forehead, pulling me closer. “We will,” he says. “And I’ll make sure it’s good for you. But don’t rush, okay? I want to go at your pace.”

“Okay,” I whisper, and close my eyes. “I’m tired.” 

“Go to sleep,” he says, and tickles my back.

He does everything possible to avoid the scar. That’s the one inch of skin he won’t touch. 

“Goodnight,” I whisper, already drifting off. 

But he still sounds completely wakeful when he says, “Goodnight, April.” 

…

In the morning, I wake up to Jackson’s voice. Even without opening my eyes, I realize I’m still naked, and I don’t know what time it is. I have a class - his class - at 8am. 

But obviously, he’s still here, which means I can’t be all that late. 

I open my eyes and lie there looking at the ceiling for a bit, trying to wake up. My eyes are creaky and heavy, and I’m too comfortable to move. His bed is worlds better than mine at the townhouse. 

As I lie there, I can’t help but listen to what he’s saying. 

“Yes, I can be there tonight,” he says. “After I’m finished with work. 7 is still good. I’m sorry, I know I haven’t been coming. I’ve been busy, things have come up… yes. I can work it out. I know, you told me that last time. And I genuinely apologize.” 

There’s a small pause where I sit up, bringing the sheet along.

“Yes, I remember the building. Psychotherapy Associates of Chicago, on Irving Park. I’m familiar, I’ll be there. Thanks, Naima. See you soon.” 

I rub my eyes and stand, walking to the bathroom with the white blanket trailing behind me. When I appear in the doorway, Jackson’s eyes light up. 

“Hey,” he says, shaving cream coating the lower half of his face. He taps the razor in the sink water when he says, “You’re awake. You slept so soundly last night.”

“Yeah,” I say, voice still raspy. “Morning, baby.” 

He smiles warmly. Even in my sleepy state, I’m curious about the content and context of the phone call, but I don’t yet have the wherewithal to ask. 

“I’d kiss you, but…” He motions to the cream on his face. 

I giggle softly and walk to him, leaning my head against his upper arm. I turn to the side and kiss his bicep, and he gives me a hug from the side after I do. 

“I liked waking up next to you,” he says, resuming the motion of the razor. 

“I didn’t get the same privilege,” I say, pretending to pout. 

He chuckles. “We’ll have plenty more mornings,” he says. “Hey. Why don’t you come over again tonight, and bring  _ The Book Thief _ ? We can order something, have some wine, and read.” 

“That sounds good,” I say.

“What do you say, around 8:30?” 

I look in his eyes and test the waters. “What about earlier, like 7?” I ask. 

He shakes his head. “I can’t at 7, baby. I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” 

I know I shouldn’t try and find out this way, but it’s the only method I’m comfortable enough to try. I don’t want to let him know I was eavesdropping, but I’m curious all the same. 

“I, uh, I have therapy tonight at 7,” he says, then clears his throat. “I was just hoping I could see you after.” 

Instantly, I feel guilty for pushing it out of him. He was seeking my presence because the session might be hard, and I behaved like a snake to get the information I wanted. I should’ve just asked. I promise myself not to do that again. 

“Oh,” I say. “Then, of course. Tonight, 8:30.” 

He smiles and kisses my cheek, which leaves an imprint of shaving cream behind. We both laugh as he wipes it off and finishes the job. 

“But now,” he says. “We have to get ready for class.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains recollections of childhood sexual abuse. Proceed at your own discretion.

**JACKSON**

I insist on giving April a ride to campus, and she willingly agrees. As she sits in the passenger seat, I steal glances at her while she fiddles with the radio, looking for a Top 40 station. 

“What kind of music do you like?” she asks, bouncing her shoulders to the poppy beat. 

“Anything, really,” I say. 

“Oh, don’t be so diplomatic,” she replies, elbow resting on the console. “What’s your favorite?”

I shake my head. “You’ll make fun,” I say, smirking. 

“No, I won’t,” she whines, reaching to hold my thigh with one small hand. “Baby. Just tell me. I wanna know everything about you, and we have to start somewhere.” 

When I look her way, the expression on her face is hopeful and playful. Of course, I can’t say no.

“Classical,” I say. “Unless I’m running, then I’ll only play Kanye.” 

“I like Kanye,” she says. “American Boy featuring Estelle has to be the best song ever created.” 

“Debatable,” I say, shrugging. “Jesus Walks is pretty good, along with Gold Digger.” 

“You’re so basic,” she says, nudging me.

“Basically what?” 

She bursts out laughing, eyes pinched shut and everything. 

“What?” I say. 

“Baby,” she whispers, like we’re trading secrets. “You’re old.”

“Shut up,” I say, chuckling now, too. 

She keeps a hand on my thigh as we cruise down Lakeshore Drive, still coming down from her laughing fit that admittedly, I’m still not sure what caused. But, all the same, I enjoy seeing her so happy - especially over something silly.

“So, what’s your favorite classical piece?” she asks, drumming her fingers on my leg. 

I don’t take any time to think, I already know. 

“It’s a toss-up between Nocturne by Chopin or Laudate Dominum by Mozart,” I answer. 

“So fancy,” she says. “So smart.” 

I grin and shake my head. “What about you?” I ask. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Ever?” she asks. “No way. Too hard.” 

“Okay, your favorite song right now.” 

“Hmm…” she says, thinking. “Maybe... Mine by Bazzi. It’s really sweet, and I think about you every time it comes on.” 

I’ve never heard of the song, but my stomach does flips over the fact that something made her think of me. 

“Here’s a line,” she says, then sings the tune. “I’m so - fuckin’ - happy - you’re a - live.”

I suppress a big smile and try to play it cool. “Very cute,” I say.

“You are,” she says, and runs one hand down my chest. 

When we get to campus, she separates from me and ducks in her seat, putting her hood up for good measure. Once we’re inside the parking garage, she glances around before speaking to me. 

“I can get out first,” she says. 

“Okay,” I say. “Then, I’ll give you a few minutes.”

She nods, then checks the area again. Seeing that no one’s around, she leans to give me a casual, sweet kiss on the lips. “Have a good day,” she says. “See you in there.” 

I nod and brush my thumb over her cheekbone. I can’t get over how precious she is. 

I watch her walk away with purpose, head ducked to protect her face from the chilly wind. I sit in the car for a while, giving her a grace period but also gathering my thoughts. Knowing that my therapy appointment is looming later won’t make today easy. But all I have to do is keep in mind that spending time with April will follow, and hopefully I can keep my head on straight. 

When I walk into Cobb Lecture Hall, April is waiting outside the classroom with a few other students.

“I apologize for being a bit late,” I say, and unlock the door. 

“No problem,” someone says, as they all file in. 

I make myself comfortable at the head desk, setting up the projector for a presentation I have planned for today. As I click through the school’s online portal, I lift my eyes above the laptop screen and catch April’s attention. 

She gives me a one-finger wave, keeping her hand close to her chest. I smirk in response, but then erase it from my lips. 

I begin the lesson, teaching the class about the most recent book they were supposed to read -  _ The Vagina: A Literary and Cultural History _ by Emma L. E. Rees. I flip to the first slide of the presentation, which gives a general overview along with questions from the text. 

“If there was an issue you had with the book, what was it?” I ask. 

In my personal opinion, this is one of the most interesting, well-written, and poignant books of the course. It’s a mixture of both highbrow and lowbrow text, puns mixed in with intelligent views on feminism. 

April’s hand shoots into the air, and I force myself to fight a smile. It’s no question that she’s the smartest student in the room, and everyone knows it. But still, I wait a moment before calling on her. 

“April,” I say, nodding. 

She clears her throat. “If anything, the title is misleading,” she says, and crosses her legs fluidly. I watch them as she does, tights-covered and lithe. I can’t stop remembering how they felt last night, wrapped tight as vices around my head. 

“Explain,” I say. 

“It’s misnamed, just like The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler was,” she continues. “The book doesn’t so much center on the inner organs, rather than the vulva and labia. The clitoris gets a bit of attention, too, but I’m pretty sure the author needed a word that everyone was familiar with. I mean, a lot of women aren’t comfortable with the term ‘vulva.’” 

“You’re right,” I say. “That’s a very valid point.” 

As I continue with the slides, my brain goes on autopilot. I’m doing my best to let my eyes scan the class, but as I do, all I notice is that mostly everyone has zoned out. Some are taking notes, but their eyes have glazed over. The only one dutifully engaged is April, attention focused forward, jotting down everything I say. 

I’m not sure what comes out of my mouth in regards to the lesson, but I hope it’s good. Because all I’m thinking about is April last night, the way she twitched and moaned beneath me, pushed my head tighter between her thighs, wrapped her lips around my dick and sucked me off until I was spent. 

Knowing all that happened and now here she is, sitting in front of me as my student, is a little thrilling. 

“In our postmodern, porn-obsessed culture, vaginas appear to be everywhere, literally or symbolically but, crucially, they are as silenced as they are objectified,” I say, starting a new subject from the one I’d just been focused on. 

All this talk of vaginas was a bad decision for today’s lesson, I realize that now. It’s subtle, but April fidgets in her chair and I know her mind is in the same place.

Not only am I thinking of the tight, wet V between her legs, I’m also thinking about the sweet, sleepy look in her eyes this morning as she sought me out, naked. I’m thinking of her soft weight leaned against my shoulder, meeting my eyes in the mirror as she accepted a foamy kiss on the cheek. 

She’s everything. She’s it for me. I’ve never thought about a woman like this before, ever in my life. Right now, to me, April is the sun. I revolve around her, and I’m having a hard time standing at the front of this room, pretending not to squint against her radiance. 

When class is over, I couldn’t be more relieved. I don’t waste time in gathering my things, hoping I’ll be able to catch a moment of April’s time, but find her preoccupied with Owen instead. 

I take it upon myself to unpack my laptop and pretend I forgot something on it, just to catch their hushed conversation. They’re at the top of the lecture hall, near the door, but voices carry in this amphitheater-shaped space. 

“I’m not asking for that much,” Owen says. “Just one date. Come on, April. I wanna show you how a real man should treat you.” 

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry, I already told you. I’m seeing someone.” 

“Fucking your professor doesn’t count,” he says, and I bristle. 

“It’s not him,” she says, small voice adamant. “I’m seeing Derek Shepherd.” 

“You told me he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t then,” she says, quick on her feet. “But we’re together now. So, I couldn’t go on a date with you, even if I wanted to.” 

“You do want to, though,” Owen says. “I can tell. I see it in those pretty eyes.” 

I glance above the screen to see her head turned uncomfortably to the side.

“Please stop,” she says. 

I bunch my fists and force myself to stay calm. I take deep breaths as the anger rises to the surface, and I have to fight not to go up there and rip Owen Hunt to shreds. April has already been taken advantage of and hurt enough in her life; she doesn’t need him pressuring her.

“The offer’s on the table, if you ever wanna take me up on it,” he says. “Or we could do something a little more subtle. Whatever you want, on the DL. You must be a great fuck.” 

“I have to go,” she says finally, and shoves past him. 

I gather my things quickly now, letting her get far away so I can ignore the urge to catch up with her. Owen lingers at the top of the stairs, throwing a malicious look my way, and I shoot one back. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask, keeping my tone even and firm. 

“Yeah,” he says, uncaring, before turning his back and walking towards the main doors. 

I head to my office, flustered. I can’t stand the fact that I stood there and watched that interaction, yet did nothing to stop it. I should’ve done something, said something, interrupted - as the professor. Sure, it would’ve made Owen more suspicious than he already is, but it would have been worth it for April’s wellbeing. I want her to know that I’m always backing her and ready to protect her, but I didn’t show it just then. 

I feel inadequate, and I need to talk to her. 

**SENT, 10:09am-** Hey, April. It’s Jackson. Are you okay? 

I set my phone to the side and rest my face in my palms, massaging my temples. 

**RECEIVED, 10:11am-** hi baby. I know its you (: you dont have to say every time! And ya im fine. Owen is just an ass. 

**SENT, 10:11am-** Okay, just checking. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know how to approach it without looking suspicious. I’m sorry. 

**RECEIVED, 10:12am-** honey its fine. I dealt w it. Hes a nuisance more than anything. You dont have to worry about me ok? 

I smile at the screen, though it makes me feel silly to do so. Not only am I smiling at the content of her message, but I discovered I love it when she calls me pet names. 

**SENT, 10:13am-** Easier said than done. 

**RECEIVED, 10:13am-** (: i know. Same goes for me w you. Im thinking about you today ok?

I know what she means, but even so, I prompt her further. I’m not ready to put this conversation away quite yet.

**SENT, 10:14am-** How do you mean? 

**RECEIVED, 10:14am-** dont ‘how do you mean’ me. I know you know what i mean. Your therapy appointment, im thinking about you. I hope it makes you feel a little better to get that stuff off your chest.

I lean back in my chair. 

**SENT, 10:15am-** What I’m looking forward to is seeing you after. That’s how I’ll get through today. 

**RECEIVED, 10:16am-** thats how i get thru every day (;

I’m poised to respond when I get another incoming message from her. 

**RECEIVED, 10:19am-** gotta go. Next lecture is starting. Try and have a good day, text if you need anything. Kisses xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The corner of my lips pull up in a half-smile as I set my phone down, and I know I’ll carry the happy weight of her with me all day. I’ll need it. 

…

My hands shake as I wait in the lobby of Psychotherapy Associates of Chicago, and I can’t stop jiggling my left knee. There’s an old issue of People magazine open in my lap, but even as my eyes skim the words, I absorb nothing. 

The last time I came here was a number of weeks ago. During that session, my therapist, Naima, took me back to the past and asked me to relive it in simple terms. No details, no sensory memories, just cut and dry. 

I barely got through it, and by the end I had dissolved into a near-panic attack on her gray couch. She helped me through it with breathing exercises, tissues, and a glass of water, but did not touch me. The fact that she knew to keep the distance told me I needed to keep coming back, that I needed to keep seeing her, specifically. 

Her speciality is in childhood abuse. I trust her, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy talking to her. When I see her face peer out from the office door, my stomach plummets to my feet and my tongue grows starchy and dry. 

Coping is easier when I bury my past. If those memories were at the forefront of my mind during every waking moment of the day, there’s no way I could go on with my life. So, the fact that they have to be present for our hour-long session, is exhausting. I’ve spent years shoving them down, so unburying them is not easy by any means. 

“Jackson,” she says, beckoning me forward. “Please, come in.” 

My legs wobble as I smile as best I can and head towards her. She closes the door behind me, gesturing towards the couch, and I sit. 

“It’s nice to see you,” she says, sitting on the armchair across from me, a yellow pad of paper on her lap. Once we get started, she’ll subtly write notes there.

“You as well,” I reply, and sit rigid against the back of the couch. 

I’m aware she notices, but she calls no attention to my tension. 

“What have you been up to?” she asks. 

I let out a long breath. “Teaching,” I say. “The first quarter is almost finished. Exams are coming up next week.” 

“That’s always a stressful time,” she says, nodding. 

“For them, yes,” I say, chuckling nervously. 

She smiles, if only to fill the space. “And your personal life?” she asks. “How’s that been?” 

“Good,” I answer. “I’ve, uh, I’ve started seeing someone.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?” she says. 

I nod.

“Tell me about her,” she says. 

“Um…” I say. “Well, she makes me very happy. Our relationship is somewhat new, but I really enjoy spending time with her. She’s funny, she makes me laugh. And she’s beautiful… she’s stunning. More than stunning.” 

I find myself smiling, talking about April. 

“She’s easily the smartest person I’ve met,” I say. “We challenge each other, keep up with each other. Talking with her is never boring, she always has something new to say. She keeps me on my toes. Being around her makes me happy in a way I’ve not known before.” 

Naima nods, and starts writing. I can’t help but feel curious as to what’s going on that paper. 

“How did you two meet?” she asks. 

I freeze for a moment, wondering how much I should disclose. My professional relationship with Naima is important; it resides on the fact that we keep open communication and no secrets. If I want her help, I have to be transparent. 

But conversely, my relationship with April is more important. I would never do something to jeopardize it. It has to stay under wraps. 

“At the university,” I say, which isn’t a lie at all. 

“Oh, so she’s a fellow professor of yours?” Naima says. 

I nod curtly, not offering any further details.

She leans forward a bit, eyebrows creasing subtly. “You’re not telling me the complete truth,” she says, seeing through me as she always does. 

I clear my throat and sit up straighter, avoiding eye contact. She doesn’t stop looking at me, though. Her deep brown eyes are comfortable on my face, no matter how uncomfortable I am with having them there.

“Telling the truth comes with great risk,” I say, vaguely.

She’s quiet, and I’ve known her long enough to know that when she stays quiet, she expects me to continue. I push her limits and don’t speak for a long while, listening to only the white noise machine near the door and the ticking of the clock. But finally, I break. By only a fraction. 

“If I told you, it might cost my job,” I say, barely moving my lips. “Do with that what you will.” 

She leans back again, further away, somewhat accepting of my answer. She writes something else, and I let out a sigh of relief when she stops pushing the subject of April.

“I’m sensing that’s not a subject you’re willing to elaborate on today,” she says. “That’s fine. We can move on. How have your flashbacks been?” 

I clear my throat. “Present,” I say. 

She looks up from the pad. “That’s new,” she says. “From what I gleaned during our last session, you haven’t had a clear memory in years.” 

“Correct,” I say.

“What prompted these?” 

I nudge my glasses up on my nose, blinking out the window into the darkness. Being that it’s past 7 and wintertime, the sun has long since set. My mottled reflection stares back, so I look away. I don’t like to see myself while I talk about this - it’s a reminder that it happened to  _ me _ . 

“My girlfriend,” I say, and amongst this sour discomfort, her name is a sweet peppermint on my tongue. “The other night. She was telling me about her childhood trauma, which was awful. It brought me back to that place. My place.” 

Naima nods, writes something down. “Did you talk to her about yours?” she asks. 

I shake my head. 

“Have you considered it?” she follows up. “Maybe, because she is as special as you say, she can be someone you confide in. Someone you talk to about this.” 

I shake my head again. In life, I have a hard time following through with things I can’t see in my mind’s eye. I can’t picture sitting down with April and telling her how I was hurt. It isn’t a tangible image, so it must be impossible. 

“No,” I say. 

Her eyes are soft, not hard and challenging. She doesn’t push. She waits for me. 

“At least, not yet,” I say.

“That’s valid,” she replies. “But is there a chance she is someone you’d want to explain this to someday?” 

“Someday.”

“That’s a start,” she says. “I have a suggestion. No matter how far in the future you’re thinking, this will come up with your girlfriend eventually. You’re not a person who thrives in being put on the spot, and you don’t do well when you’re ill-prepared. So, right now, why don’t you practice by telling me about what happened.” 

“You know what happened,” I say, a bit obstinate. 

“I’m aware,” she says. “But she doesn’t. I want you to pretend I’m her.” 

I cross my arms over my torso, taking deep breaths. 

“Take it at a comfortable pace,” Naima says. “We have plenty of time. Listen to your body.”

I’m listening to my body right now, and it’s telling me to run out of this office and never come back. But of course, she doesn’t mean it like that. 

“Okay,” I say. “I, uh… I don’t know where to start.” 

“The beginning,” she says. “Is always the best choice.” 

I chew on my lower lip and close my eyes for a moment, in disbelief that I’m willingly letting these memories come back in order to voice them. Judging by the way I normally handle my repression, to my body it doesn’t make sense. I usually do everything to ward them off, and now I’m being told to do the complete opposite. 

In our past sessions, Naima has always told me to present the blanket statement first. It’s the hardest to say and the hardest to own, but necessary. When my lips poise to say the words, I feel like I might vomit. Vomiting is an all-too-familiar reaction to talking about this, thinking about it, or living through it. 

“As a child,” I begin, hands shaking. “I was sexually abused. From the ages of six to ten. By my grandfather, Harper Avery.” 

Naima watches me with gentle interest. Her eyes are engaged, but she gives me bodily space.

“I don’t remember a time before,” I say, very quietly. “The first memory I have of anything is of it happening. Him coming into my room, locking the door. Sitting on the edge of my bed and eventually lying down with me.” 

My whole body trembles now. 

“He touched me and made me touch him. For four years, almost every night. It was all I knew. I didn’t know it was wrong. He always said, ‘I love you’ after. I was a child. I felt guilty for thinking it might be wrong.”

My eyes burn, along with my nose. I can’t feel my fingers and I want to run. 

“My father saw. He knew. He walked in on it happening one night, and stopped it. I thought it was done forever, I remember being so relieved. I hadn’t even turned seven yet. I don’t know what he said to my grandfather, but I guess it doesn’t matter. He lived with us at the time and had nowhere else to stay. My father didn’t make him leave. He stopped coming in my room for a few weeks, but picked up again before long. Only, he waited until later. My father always knew, he just pretended he didn’t.” 

I clench my fists, anger rising. 

“He knew, and he didn’t do a thing. He let me suffer at the hands of his father, who had probably done the same to him.” 

I grit my teeth and shake my head roughly, dropping my chin to my chest. I start to cry, and the tears are hot and fat as they roll down my cheeks and hit my shirt with soft thuds. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around myself. 

“Okay,” Naima says. “We don’t have to. You did well, Jackson.” 

I nod, and she steers the conversation in a different direction so I don’t have to leave the office with it still on my mind. It’s a courtesy she always gives me, and one I greatly appreciate. As we go on about other aspects of my life, the black memories retreat further and further back to where they came from. 

After the session is over, I sit in my car for a few minutes to decompress. I turn on the radio, finding it still on the Top 40 station that April picked earlier, and listen. The lyrics don’t mean much, but the beat is good and it grounds me. To the present, where I’m in my nice car in a parking lot of a renowned counseling building, a grown man. I’m no longer the child shivering in bed, having wet it for the fourth time that week, crying out for my mother. I’m no longer the child at the hands of my grandfather, begging him to stop. I’m a grown man now. I’m in control of myself and my life. 

And I have to get home to someone who I can protect much better than anyone ever protected me.

When I walk inside the lobby of my building, April is already there. Her hair is pulled away from her face in a French braid, and she’s reading. She’s so engrossed in the book that she doesn’t see me coming, so I clear my throat to grab her attention. 

“Oh,” she says, peppily. “Hi. Sorry, I was caught up.” 

“I see that,” I say, and wrap her in a big hug when she stands. “Hi, my princess.”

She gives me one more tight squeeze, and I melt into her. I’m so relieved to have her in my arms, encapsulated in the smell of her hair and lotion, drowning in her. I tuck my face into her neck and she rubs my back, holding on for as long as I need her to. 

When we pull away, I take her hand and we head upstairs. Once we’re there, I shut the door as she takes off her winter gear and sets her bag on a chair. 

“How was therapy?” she asks.

I pull out a couple menus that I have in an organized shelf, stuck to the fridge with a magnet. “What do you feel like eating?” I ask. “Chinese, sushi, Mexican… up to you.”

She taps her chin, walking closer to look at the options. “Can we do a pizza?” she asks.

“Pizza, sure,” I say, scrolling through my contacts to find the number for Domino’s. “What do you like?”

We order a large pizza with cheese and pepperoni, stuffed crust per April’s request. We sit on the couch while eating it, and she holds a slice in one hand and  _ The Book Thief _ in the other. 

“You have to let me chew between sections,” she says, smirking. 

I nod, glowing with happiness from being next to her.

“Okay,” she says, and finishes her bite. She opens to the first page and begins. “Chapter one, Death and Chocolate.” She clears her throat. “First the colors. Then the humans. That’s usually how I see things. Or at least, how I try.” 

She takes a bite, situating the book while she chews. 

“Here is a small fact,” she continues. “You are going to die.” 

I raise my eyebrows and she catches my eye. 

“I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely  _ can _ be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that’s only the A’s. Just don’t ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.” 

She scratches her eyebrow and tucks a stray piece of hair, fallen from the braid, behind her ear.

“Reaction to the aforementioned fact. Does this worry you? I urge you - don’t be afraid. I’m nothing if not fair.” 

April continues reading through the first chapter, and the gentle lilt of her voice fills the room. As she goes, I finish my pizza and set the box on the coffee table after making sure she’s had her fill, too. After knowing she has, I lie down to rest my head on her thigh, watching her face as she delves into her favorite story, now shared with me.

When she grows tired of reading, she sets the book down and looks at my face. Holding my cheeks in her hands, she asks, “How was therapy?” 

I close my eyes and press my lips gently together. “I already told you,” I say.

“No…” she says, caressing my skin with her thumb. “I asked, but you didn’t answer.” 

“Oh,” I say, opening my eyes into hers. “I’m sorry. It was fine.” 

She looks a bit dubious. “It was?”

I nod. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head and answer, “No.” 

“You’re okay from it, though?” she says. 

I break into a smile. “I’m fine, baby. I promise. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.” 

I’m not sure how much truth that last statement holds, but I say it anyway. I don’t know why. To comfort her, most likely. To put her at ease. 

“Well, good,” she says. “I was thinking about you all day. I didn’t want you to have a hard night.” 

“My night is perfectly fine,” I say. “In fact, it’s great.” 

I reach up to stroke her chin, which makes her blush. I love making her blush. 

“How was your day?” I ask. 

She shrugs. “It was fine. Just kind of boring. I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” I say, unable to stop smiling now. 

She chuckles. “I think I might be a little obsessed with you, Dr. Avery.” 

“Likewise,” I say. 

I lift my head from her lap and wrap one arm around her shoulders, leaning to kiss her. When our lips meet, yellow light exudes from my chest and spreads throughout my body. I’d spent the majority of the day in pieces, but now, with her, I’m whole again.

I kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, leading a path to her ear. She giggles when I get there and take the lobe between my teeth, running my tongue over the soft skin. I kiss underneath the slope of her jaw, the column of her neck, and place new hickeys over the old. 

A while later, as she’s under me on the couch with lips kissed swollen and pink, she speaks while coming up for air.

“Jackson,” she says, fingertips on my neck. “I want tonight to be it. I want tonight to be the night we…” She meets my eyes. “Can we have sex?”

I pull away to look in her eyes and find them vulnerable and earnest. They’re glistening with emotion, waiting for my answer with a nervous layer underneath. 

I think back on the night I experienced and know this isn’t the best time. But, all the same, I want to be with her. Badly. And the last thing I want is to turn her down when she’s spent so long preparing herself, making sure she was ready. I don’t want to ruin our progress or make her think I don’t want this, want her. Because I do, very much so. 

I promise myself to push away my demons for a few hours and give her everything she wants and needs. I’ll lock them in a closet and give myself to her as she gives herself to me. 

“Of course,” I say. “You decided… you’re ready?” 

“I’m ready,” she says, holding my face. “I’m all in with you. I want you to be my first, I want to go all the way. I want to feel you moving in me, Jackson. I want… I want everything.” 

I shudder at her words alone, so I can’t imagine how I’ll react to being inside her body.

“Okay,” I say, bending to kiss her neck. “I do, too.”

She wraps her arms tight around me as we continue to kiss, bodies pushing and pulling against each other, ebbing and flowing like ocean waves against a shore. Symbiotic, in-sync, dependable. Stable, grounded, natural.

“Let me take you to bed,” I say, unwinding my body from hers to stand up from the couch.

She takes my hand and follows me to my bedroom, where I shut the door. I’m not sure why, being that I live alone without so much as a pet. But it feels more secure, more private, less pressure. I smile as I find myself nervous, because I’ve never felt that before sleeping with a woman. But April is different - she’s not just anyone, she’s the one. 

She starts to pull her sweater over her head, but I stop her. “Let me,” I say, and she smiles. 

I pull the sweater off and the camisole next, which leaves her in just a simple black bra. While kissing her neck, I pull the hair tie from the tail of her brand and unwind her hair with my fingers, feeling it tumble free and cascade over her back in loose waves. 

I run my hands down her shoulders, her upper arms, her ribcage, her hips. I unbutton her jeans and help her step out of them, then kneel to kiss her stomach. She freezes, taking a sharp inhale, as I trace the waistband of her light blue panties with my lips. I don’t take them off, though. Not yet. 

I kiss the front of her thighs and kneecaps, then guide her to sit down on the bed. She watches my every move, eyes burning, as I lift her leg and kiss the inside of her ankle. I move to the arch of her foot and the bones on top, massaging her calf as I go. 

When I come back up, her chest is flushed and heaving. Even in the low light, I see how dilated her pupils are - wide with arousal.

“I’m gonna go down on you now,” I say, spreading her thighs slowly, gently. 

I don’t want her first time to be rough and forceful, that will come later once we talk it over. I plan on going slow, taking my time, and treating her how every woman should be treated when it comes to sex. I’m going to make sure her body feels good, and feels everything it should. I don’t plan on skipping out on anything. Tonight is her night, and I will worship her.

“Okay,” she breathes, and lifts her hips so I can remove her underwear. 

The hair is different than the first time I saw it. The first time it was completely unshaven, and during the past few occasions I’ve noticed she gave it a decent trim. 

I run my thumb through the considerably smaller patch of hair and look up at her. “You know, you don’t have to modify this in any way for me,” I say. “I like your body natural. If you’re self-conscious about the hair…” 

I lean forward and lick her, first my nose and then tongue swiping through her curls. 

“You don’t have to be.” 

She trembles, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Okay,” she says. 

I pull her hips to the edge of the bed and throw her knees over my shoulders, laying her down flat. I make sure no inch of skin between her legs goes untouched, and my chin and lips are soaked within minutes. I spread her lips with two fingers and go deeper, closing my eyes as I taste her, and her inner muscles flutter at the contact.

The wet sounds made from my mouth against her heat are salacious and loud, but they only propel me further. I find her clit and suck on it deliberately, which makes her unwind and pulsate harder against my tongue, yanking my shoulders closer with her heels against my back. 

I suck on it with a certain rhythm, and my fingers inside her match the same speed. She moans in tandem, hips working along with me, and screams when her orgasm finally hits. 

Her essence gushes against my face and I hold her down in efforts to lap it all up. When I pull away, her curls are shining and her thighs are quivering; a masterpiece painted over her body from what I was able to do. 

“That felt so good,” she breathes, slipping one hand between her legs to cup herself. “Oh, god, Jackson, that was so good.” 

I smirk and kiss a path up from her core, over her bellybutton, between her breasts, up her neck, until I get to her mouth. While ravishing her tongue with mine, I squeeze her breasts and she arches her back, trying desperately to get closer. 

“I’m ready,” she pants. “I’m wet, and I want you.” 

I nod surely and undress myself. Not hurriedly, but not slow either. She waits for me, lying open, still recovering. 

“I’m gonna grab a condom,” I say. “I want you to know that I’m clean, but I still think using one is important.” 

“I agree,” she says. 

“Are you on birth control?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Even more reason,” I say, smiling warmly.

“I can be, though,” she says. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I say, and open my nightstand drawer to pull out the box of Magnum condoms. I unwrap one and climb back onto the bed, completely naked. 

She’s seen my penis before, but she’s staring again. 

“Don’t worry,” I say, pulling the condom on. “I’ll go slow. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” 

She nods and says, “Okay.” 

I hover over her, kissing her senseless for a long moment before lifting her knees and circling them around my waist. Her core is still swollen with arousal, gleaming and ready for me. And I’m more than ready for her. 

“You’re sure?” I ask. 

She runs her hands down my chest, lifting her hips a bit. “Yes, baby,” she says. “Show me how it feels. Jackson…” She meets my eyes and holds heavy contact, one hand resting lightly on the front of my neck. “Make love to me.” 

My heart bursts and even more blood rushes to my groin. I kiss her soundly on the mouth, pulling away with a wet smack. 

“Let me know if it hurts,” I say, and push the tip past her folds, just a bit inside. I watch her face for any discomfort, but all I see is her getting used to me just as I’m getting used to her. 

I sink in further, about halfway, and feel her stretch to accommodate my size. She gasps and lets the air out softly, licking her lips after. I pause until she nods, then push all the way in. 

“Oh, god,” she moans, widening her thighs. Her bones crack a little, which makes her giggle. I relish the sound. 

“How’s it feel?” I ask, completely undone by how amazing she feels wrapped around me. Warm to the point of being hot, and beyond slick. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” she says, adjusting. “I just need to get used to it. I’ve never felt…” She smiles at a thought, then braces her hands on my shoulders. “You’re literally inside me. That’s so… I can’t wrap my head around it.” 

I match her smile and kiss her. I have the undeniable urge to start thrusting, to let my body take over and shut my brain off, completely ravage and pound her, but I won’t do that. Now isn’t the time. I have control. I’m in control of everything, from my senses to physical feelings, to the speed in which we finish. Everything is under control.

“Move, baby,” she says, pulling me back to reality. “I’m ready.” 

“Yeah?” I say. 

She nods. 

“I’ll go slow,” I say, then start pumping my hips.

From how tight she is, I have a feeling I won’t last long. I’m determined to put off my orgasm until she has hers, though, and I’m also determined to give her one while I’m inside her. I’m fully aware that a woman’s first time is much different than a man’s, and usually not all that pleasurable. It’ll take time for it to be enjoyable for her, and I’m going to spend every moment devoted to making sure that happens. 

My movements are drawn-out and precise. I pull halfway out before slipping back in, and her legs tighten around my waist. 

“I like that,” she says. “When you move slow. I like… you’re so deep, I like that, baby.” 

Encouraged by her words, I keep going. I pump as deeply as I can, keeping my eyes open even while hers close. I love the way her body responds to me, keening and arching and stretching as I move over her, around her, inside her. 

My stamina is impressive, which is something I’ve always known. When she starts to sweat and whine, I know she only needs a small shove over the precipice, so I give her one. I tuck my hand between our bodies and press my thumb deftly against her clit, rubbing in slow, rough circles that match the speed of my hips.

Within moments, another orgasm courses through her in shockwaves. Her body racks and shakes, and she lets out a high, pitchy moan that I plan on holding onto forever. While she’s still fluttering and spasming, I thrust quicker and shallower as her ankles latch together over my ass, and have my orgasm, too.

I don’t move directly after it’s over, and she doesn’t either. I stay collapsed on top of her body, her limbs wrapped around me tight as vices. I feel her pulse over every inch of her skin, and we’re both sweating. 

I’m still inside her, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

I realize I do have to move, though, because I’m much bigger than she is and I can’t crush her forever. But when I roll off, she pulls herself close and wraps her arms around me, legs too. 

“That was amazing,” she says, nuzzling her face into my neck. 

“It was,” I say. “You… you are amazing.” 

She looks up at me, and I swipe some damp hair off her sticky forehead. Her eyes are shining with emotion, and she’s wearing a gentle, sleepy grin on her lips.

“Jackson,” she says, voice soft as flower petals on my skin.

I make eye contact to propel her statement, kissing her softly on the lips as I do. 

She takes a tepid breath, pausing for only a moment before proceeding. 

“I love you,” she says.

My hands on her grow clammy, and I’m forced to remove them. The room tilts as my vision doubles, and I frown and shake my head to try and right things. It doesn’t work. 

Because while I’m fully aware who said it to me - April’s light, loving voice - all I can hear is the low, gravelly pitch of my grandfather’s saying it instead. 

And I can’t say it back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual assault.

**APRIL**

Jackson is silent. He doesn’t speak. 

His face blanches, expression devoid of emotion, as he lies next to me, wordless. He takes his hands off my naked body, the naked body I just gave to him, and freezes. 

My jaw sets, stomach clenches. I bite my lower lip, eyes threatening tears, as I wait for him to say it back. 

He has to say it back. I didn’t put myself out there because I had doubts. I was sure he would say it; I was sure he felt the same. 

He doesn’t even open his mouth to try and say something. He doesn’t look away or let his eyes wander the room, he stares directly into mine. Saying nothing. Letting the silence grip my neck and suffocate me, letting me wallow in my own stupidity. 

Because that’s what I am, I’m stupid. I’m stupid for saying it, I’m stupid for being here, I’m stupid for all of this. This must not have meant as much to him as it did to me, and he must be a great liar. I never saw this coming. 

I thought we were in this for the long haul, but I guess he just wanted to fuck me. Just like every other guy. I really hadn’t thought he was like them, but I suppose I was wrong. 

All men are the same. 

I can’t believe I slept with him. Not only that, I can’t believe how good it felt. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. It was cathartic, connecting, nearly spiritual. But now, it seems all of that was one-sided. 

My nose burns as I start to cry, and I turn away to aggressively get out of bed and gather my clothes. I pick them up from the floor quickly, wiping my eyes as I go, and press my lips together. I won’t break down in front of him. He doesn’t get to see how he affected me.

I thought I could trust him. And he ripped the rug out from under me. 

“April…” Jackson says, standing to pull his underwear on. 

“Don’t,” I say, firmly. 

I put on my bra and underwear and stand there before him, vibrating with rage and pain. 

“I’m… I can’t…” he stammers. 

“What?” I snap. 

“I’m sorry - it’s not what you…” 

“It’s not what I think. Yeah, I know,” I say, pulling my sweater over my head. My hair is a wreck. 

“Not like that,” he says. “Please…” 

“Please, what?” I exclaim. “What do you want from me, Jackson? What more can I possibly do for you?” 

He doesn’t respond. He just stands there, taking the blows. That makes me angrier, if possible. I don’t want a punching bag. I don’t want to treat someone like that, because I know how it feels. I want an equal fight, but he won’t give me one.

“You don’t understand,” he says. 

“I get that now,” I respond, stepping into my jeans with a certain degree of difficulty. 

“No…” he trails off. 

“I can’t believe this,” I say, pushing my ratty hair out of my face. “I’ve spent so long making sure this didn’t happen. And then I just went and let it happen. You looked at me and… poof! All my scruples went out the window. How did you do that?” 

He shakes his head. He won’t look at me now. 

I feel taken advantage of. I can never get tonight back, I can never get my virginity back, and I can never tuck away those feelings I felt and told him about. I badly want to, because if I’ve learned anything in life it’s to never let your vulnerabilities show. I thought he had begun to teach me differently, but I must be a worse judge of character than I thought. Because all I feel right now is used. 

“Did you ever even like me?” I ask, stomping out of his bedroom towards the main area of the apartment.

“April, don’t say that,” he says, voice weak and wavering. I don’t bother with glancing back to look at him. I don’t want to feel sympathy.

“Or did you just use me? Because you’re the hot professor, you knew you could get me in bed. Is that all this was to you? A nice fuck? Were you grooming me? This whole time, were you grooming me?” 

Tears stream down my face as I think back on the times my friends warned me, though they didn’t know the first thing about our relationship. How had they seen, but I hadn’t?

At the same time these rage-filled thoughts course through my head, guilt does too. How can I say all this to him? Everything I felt for Jackson was so pure and undiluted. And here I am, shouting the nastiest things I can think of. How did we get to this point? How could he hurt me so badly? How could he make me feel like such an idiot? 

“It’s not like that…” he says. 

“Then what is it like?” I spit. 

He doesn’t respond. He stays a good distance away, reserved and unresponsive. 

“Whatever,” I say, then continue to pack my things. I can’t stay here tonight. I won’t be back again. I’m done being hurt. I’ve had enough. 

When the last of my things are in my backpack, I shove my feet into my shoes and stare him down across the room. 

“You hurt me,” I say. “You led me on. You tricked me.” 

He blinks rapidly, staring at the carpet. For a fleeting moment, I feel awful for berating him. Then, I take it back. I won’t apologize for my emotions anymore. I won’t apologize for owning the way I feel. He hurt me. He deserves this. 

Right? He deserves this? 

“Don’t you have anything to say?” I ask. “Or are you going to leave me hanging all night?”

His eyes have grown dark and remorseful, with that same heavy sadness laced inside. But still, he says nothing. 

“I’m leaving,” I say, hitching my bag over one shoulder after grabbing my coat. 

“Wait,” he says.

I turn around in a flash, hoping for a decent explanation, or maybe even the sentiment finally returned. But all he says is, “Let me drive you.”

“No,” I say, sternly. “I’m not taking anything from you anymore.”

I rush out the door and down to the lobby, and call an Uber as soon as I’m there. I’m stubborn, but there’s no way I’m taking the train at this time of night while I’m this upset. I might be stupid, but I’m not an idiot. 

In the back seat of the car, heading towards the townhouse, I let my head hang and the tears flow freely. The driver doesn’t try and talk to me - he’s wearing headphones - and I’m glad for that. Right now, I’d be set off at the smallest thing, and he doesn’t deserve my rage. 

The one who I directed my rage at was the one who I meant it for, but now, heading away from him, I wonder if I acted belligerently. Like a child, unwilling to listen. But, at the same time, he did lead me on. He did lead me to believe he loved me, too, and that I wouldn’t be left hanging if I said it. 

I poured my heart out to him. I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to a man, romantically. I’ve said to Alex, but he’s my best friend. I said it to my father, but I was forced. With Jackson, I thought it would be different. I thought it would be a step into the future, into a clearer mind. But he just set me back so far, made me regress, so I can’t help but blame him. I can’t help but be furious with him. 

All I wanted was reciprocation. But if he doesn’t feel the same, which he apparently doesn’t, it wouldn’t be right to say it back. I was so dead-set on the fact that his feelings did match mine, though. I have no idea how I read the situation so wrong.

When I get home, I’m angry again. I’m angry at him for letting me leave, I’m angry at his silence, and I’m angry at how good the sex was. I hate how much emotion it forced to the surface; I hate how he’ll always have that part of me. And not just my body. He kept my heart, too.

I unlock the front door and slam it shut behind me. I kick my boots so hard against the wall that they bounce to the other side of the room. I throw my backpack with all my might across the hall and it skids to a stop in front of the downstairs bathroom. I grunt as I slam my coat to the ground, letting out an errant sob as I kick it. 

I head upstairs and toss open my door, which makes it hit the wall with force. 

“April…?” I hear, and turn around to see Amelia standing there rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on? You okay?” 

“April?” a voice sounds from downstairs: Addison. When I look, she’s standing at the bottom of the steps looking up. “What’s all the banging around for?”

I look between the two of them and rage boils up again. With my hand braced on the doorknob, I cry, “Love isn’t real!” then slam my door in their faces.

I take off the clothes Jackson stripped me of only a couple hours before and throw them, and they land in a heap in the corner. No one knocks at my door, which is probably in their best interest. I don’t know what I’m capable of right now; they’d probably just wind up being screamed at.

I put on a soft robe and lie down in bed with nothing underneath. I curl into myself and cover my face, willing myself to cry and scream and sob, but none of that happens. Instead, much like Jackson in the way I left him, I keep quiet. 

I lose my breath. I uncover my face and stare ahead, at Liesel, my plant who’s suffering because of the cold. I haven’t been home much. Her leaves have wilted. 

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, reaching out to touch her. One of her petals crinkles beneath my finger and withers to the windowsill. I retract my hand. 

I wish I never would’ve signed up for that stupid gender and sexuality class. I wish I would’ve never sat in the front row, read the books so intensely, caught Dr. Avery’s eye. I should’ve kept to myself and done the bare minimum, only done the required work. All of this didn’t need to happen. 

Never experiencing the happiness he gave me would’ve been better than experiencing it and having it ripped away. 

I had one scrap of dedication left to God, and I gave it to Jackson. I could’ve sworn that, as an apology for my horrible upbringing, God gifted me him. But now, I can’t testify to that. That shred of dedication has been tossed to the wind. 

As I roll onto my back, my robe comes open and I stare at the body that is no longer just mine. I gave it to him, handed myself completely over. He’s been inside me, he’s been clear through me. He saw me for what I was and I thought he loved me for it. I thought I saw it in his eyes, his smile, the gentle way he held me. How was all of that fake? How could I have fallen for it day after day?

I punch my mattress and make myself decent. I can’t think about him anymore, or the knife dug deep into my chest. I would say he stabbed me in the back, but it was more than that. He looked me in the eyes when he killed me. 

…

I wake up the next morning curled into a ball, sun shining through the window onto my face. I yawn and rub my eyes, happy for only a moment before remembering all that transpired last night.

I usually wake up to a text from Jackson, so I can’t resist the urge to check. I’m used to seeing a ‘good morning, beautiful’ or a ‘have a good day, princess,’ but today I see neither of those things. I have a handful of Twitter notifications and likes on my latest Instagram picture, which is a selfie of me posing cute in the snow, bundled in winter gear. Jackson took the picture, but my followers don’t know that. 

I open our thread of messages and see that the last ones were exchanged last night after he got out of therapy. He told me he was going to be home soon, and I was thrilled over the fact that he made it sound like a place we shared. I loved that when he walked into the lobby, he attracted the attention of every woman sitting in vicinity, yet I was the one he walked to. The one he smiled at, wrapped his arms around, and kissed. I felt so privileged to be the one he actually saw.

I toss my phone to the end of the bed and scowl at the ceiling. My stomach growls angrily, so I get up and change into decent pajamas before traipsing downstairs with knotty hair and yesterday’s makeup. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Alex says out of the blue, which makes me jump. 

“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, holding my heart as I walk into the kitchen. 

He follows me from the living room, where he assumably slept on the couch. He’s always over at our house because he hates his roommates, and loves spending time around us. Though he won’t admit the latter part in such plain terms.

“Sorry,” he says. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. 

“Been too busy fucking the professor?” he says, eyebrows wiggling. 

“Stop,” I hiss, looking around for any signs of Addison and Amelia. “Shut up.”

“You shut up,” he counters, nudging past me while I reach up high for the cereal. “They’re not awake yet. Dead to the world.” 

“You never know,” I say, widening my eyes. 

He rolls his in return. “Paranoid ass,” he says. “Been smoking without me?”

“No,” I say. “But I could stand to.” 

“Yeah?” he says. “I brought some. We can roll after breakfast, if you want.”

“Sure,” I say. 

“And dude, let me make you eggs. Put the cereal away, you look skinny as shit. I’m gonna feed you like, a burger or something.” 

I look down at my body. “I’m the same as always,” I say.

“Yeah, skinny as shit,” he says, laughing. 

Moments later, Addison walks into the kitchen looking as tired as I feel. She sits at the table and plunks her cheek into an open palm, watching Alex at the stove.

“Making enough for everyone?” she asks.

He tosses a look over his shoulder. “If you tip me good.” 

She scoffs. “My tip is letting you crash on our couch whenever you want,” she says. 

“Touche,” he responds. “Fine.” 

Amelia wakes up before long, too, and we all sit at the table together eating scrambled eggs and toast. They taste surprisingly good, and it’s a comfort to be eating warm food even though my mind isn’t in a great place at the moment. 

“Aw, look at our happy family,” Amelia says. 

“All that’s missing is your shithead brother,” Alex grumbles. 

Amelia laughs. “You’re right,” she says. “Hey, speaking of Derek. April…” 

I know what she’s going to say, and I hate Alex for putting the thought in her mind. I wanted her to forget, because we haven’t seen each other for a good chunk of time. My plan was going just fine before he brought Derek up.

“What were you up to over the weekend? And why did you lie to us?” 

My brain goes haywire in attempts to think of a way to cover my ass. I refuse to tell them about Jackson, and I feel apologetic vibes coming from Alex in droves. He would never out me to them on purpose, and I know that. But still, he isn’t helping. 

“I, uh…” I stammer. “Sorry about that.” 

“We’re not your parents,” Addison says. “You don’t have to make shit up.” 

“Yeah,” I spit out, disliking the mention of my parents in passing. “Yeah, I know. It… I don’t know. It was just easier to say that because… I don’t know, I didn’t want you guys to judge me.” I’m buying time and I hope they can’t tell. “I was with, um, I was with Owen. Owen Hunt.” 

His is the first name that popped into my head, and I feel gross even saying it. I couldn’t think of someone else though, not anyone who isn’t mutual friends with all of us. They barely know him, so he fit the bill as a good excuse. 

“Oh, for real,” Amelia says, eyebrows up. “Uh… that’s interesting.” 

“Didn’t think he was your type,” Addison says. 

Alex coughs brashly, and they shoot him a look. I ignore him. 

“So, are you guys a thing now, or…?” Amelia asks. 

I shrug.

“I don’t wanna get into it,” I mutter. 

“Fair,” she says. “Did you let my brother down easy, at least?” 

I scrunch my forehead. “He broke it off with me,” I say. “He didn’t tell you that?” 

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We weren’t a good fit. It’s probably for the best.” 

“A likes older guys, anyway,” Alex says.

I glare and sock his upper arm as hard as I can. “Shut the fuck up,” I growl.

“Jesus, April,” Addison says, laughing incredulously. “It was just a joke. Take a pill.”

Amelia laughs, bemused. “Is Owen older, or something?” 

“By a little,” I grumble. “Can we just drop this now, please?” 

“Fine, fine,” Amelia says, palms up in surrender. “Don’t want any tension at the breakfast table.”

After a few minutes of silence, Addison says, “Hey, there’s a party tonight at the Alpha Delta Phi house. I heard it’s gonna be pretty fun. Who’s coming with me?” 

“I’ll go,” Amelia says. 

“Can’t,” Alex replies. “Wish I could. But I have a term paper I haven’t started and it’s due tomorrow at midnight. And it’s gonna suck ass.” 

I snort.

“How about you, A?” Addison asks. “Coming?” 

I debate saying no, holing up in my room for days on end like last time. But then, I realize that got me nowhere. All it did was force me to feel sorry for myself, and drown in my own sorrow. I learned my lesson; I’m not going through that again. 

I’m done letting Jackson control my emotions. I obviously didn’t have any pull over his, so he gets no say over mine.

I’m fine. I’m over him. I’m moving on. Tonight, I’m going to have fun and get fucked up. 

“Sure,” I say. “What time?” 

…

I spend a long time getting ready for the party. There’s more pressure because it’s the first one in a while that I’m attending in general, and it’s also not being thrown at our house. Because of that fact, I feel the need to look better and have more fun. I’m determined to make tonight one I won’t forget, while at the same time using it to erase the last twenty-four hours.

“Baby, come downstairs,” Amelia calls. “We’re pre-gaming in the living room.”

I smile towards her voice. “Coming!” I say, and gather the outfit I just chose along with my makeup bag and hair stuff.

I take a couple shots with them while still in my sweatpants, and Alex joins in even though he has to stay behind. We gave him the very important job of guarding the house. 

“You guys,” he says, setting his shot glass down. “Take an Uber there and back. I’m not trying to drive your drunk asses to Taco Bell at 3 in the morning.” 

“You know you will anyway,” I say. “And can you roll a joint for me, babe, pretty please?” 

He scoffs. “So, when I got the plug, I’m ‘babe,’ huh,” he grumbles. 

I smile, feeling the tequila buzz through my veins already. “Uh-huh,” I say. 

After Alex rolls a joint, he takes me by the wrist and pulls me to the front porch, where we smoke when there’s not a party going on. 

“What’s up with you?” he asks. 

I take a deep inhale, closing my eyes as the smoke fills my lungs. “Nothing,” I say, holding it. 

“Liar,” he says. “Something’s going on.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Stop, dude,” he says, seriously. “Stop. If something’s wrong, just tell me.” 

I give him a look and shake my head, taking another drag. “It’s nothing,” I say.

He takes the joint and holds it out of my reach. “Tell me, Cheech, or you’re not getting your weed back.”

“Fuck you,” I say lightly, then sigh. He takes a hit while holding it, and I scowl. “Fine. Whatever. It’s Jackson.”

“Thought so,” he says. 

“Well, it’s whatever,” I say. 

“Sure, definitely seems like it,” he says, sarcastically. 

“Stop,” I say. “I’m handling it. And give me that back.” 

I snatch it from him and inhale again, looking into the distance while holding the smoke. 

“Don’t go and do something stupid tonight,” he says, seriously. 

“I’m just gonna have fun,” I say.

“Yeah, well…” 

“I don’t need you to parent me, Alex,” I say. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’m not wallowing in my room like last time. You didn’t want me to do that, and now what? You don’t want me to go live my life, either? How would you like me to handle this?” 

“Whoa, Jesus Christ,” he says. “Get off my dick, A. God. I barely said shit, stop being so nasty.” 

I grumble an apology. 

“Just… call if you need anything,” he says, shooting me a wayward look. I know he’s not my biggest fan at the moment, but I don’t really care. 

“‘Kay,” I say, and smoke the rest of the joint before smashing it with my foot and going back inside. 

Once I’m in the house, Alex disappears and I’m left with Addison and Amelia in the living room. 

“I’m wearing this, I don’t know how good it is,” Addison says, holding up skinny jeans and a cute shirt. “I don’t care, I’m just gonna put it on. April, what are you wearing?” 

“Hold on and you’ll see,” I say, and start stripping in front of them.

When I get my hoodie off, left in just my bra, both of them gasp at the same time. 

“Holy shit,” Amelia says, but sounds amused. “What the fuck did Owen do to you?” 

“What?” I say. “What are you talking about?” 

“All those goddamn hickeys!” Addison adds. 

I look down, frazzled by the fact that they’re seeing mine and Jackson’s intimacy so blatantly. I hadn’t meant to put it on display like this; I’d forgotten they were there. Red welts and bruises dot my ribcage, my stomach, and the skin above the waistband of my sweatpants. 

“Oh,” I say, covering myself with my arms. 

“Jesus, Owen really went to town on you,” Amelia says. “Or was that my brother?” 

“No,” I answer, vaguely. “I… uh… no. Hold on.” 

I turn around and take my bra off, because the shirt I’m wearing doesn’t allow one. It’s a black, strapless crop-top with a zipper up the middle of the sweetheart chest. I zip it up and turn back around, quickly putting on the skirt I paired with it, too. It’s a multicolor, mod-pattern that falls to my mid-thigh. 

“How’s this?” I ask. 

“Fuckin’ sexy,” Addie says. “God, you’re so damn tiny.” 

I roll my eyes and smile, then slip on my black ankle boots. Sometimes I wear tights with this outfit, but not tonight. 

“Hair and makeup time!” Amelia says, once we’re all dressed. 

I specialize in makeup, so I do mine first and follow up with theirs. I paint us dark and sexy, with dramatic smokey eyes. Addison does hair - curling her own and Amelia’s, but straightening mine so it falls in one shiny sheet of red down my back.

Before we leave, I take one more shot for good measure while those two gather their bags.

“I’m ready!” I shout, wobbling to the front door, already unsteady on my heels. “Let’s go get fucked up!” 

They both laugh and open the door, bundled in coats. 

“April, are you gonna grab your jacket?” Addison asks. 

I roll my eyes hard and scoff, waving her off. “Are you kidding?” I say, stumbling out. It’s begun to snow. “It’s cold outside, but I’m still lookin’ like a thottie ‘cause a ho never gets cold!” I laugh, cackling at my impression of Cardi B. “Fuck a hypothermia!” 

They both crack up along with me, which is what I wanted. On the way to the party, we sit in the back of an Uber and sing along - loudly and badly - to whatever’s on the radio. The song the plays when we first get in is ‘Sick Boy’ by the Chainsmokers, and I know every word. The song that plays after that is ‘Mine’ by Bazzi, and my voice stops in my throat and I sit there, open-mouthed. 

“You don’t know this one, Baby A?” Addison says, cocking her head. 

I close my lips, inundated with the memory of Jackson and me in his car as I told him about this song and how it reminds me of him. It still reminds me of him. 

_ You so - fuckin’ - precious - when you - smile _ . 

“He is,” I say out loud, then start crying theatrically, but genuinely. “He is so fucking precious when he smiles.” 

My two friends give each other an odd look. “What?” Amelia says. 

I come to my senses quickly and blink away the tears, remembering the heavy makeup I have on. 

“Sorry,” I say, then clear my throat. “Can we change the station, please?” I ask the driver. “I don’t like this song.” 

When we get to the party, the house is already booming and thumping with bass from inside. Every light is on, and from the windows it’s easy to see how full of people it is. 

“Looks lit,” Addison says.

Goosebumps rise on my skin as we walk towards the door, and I wrap my arms around myself to warm myself up. It’s better once we’re inside, and my bare shoulders and arms don’t feel the freezing snap of the winter wind anymore. 

“Hey guys!” Mark says, who happens to be a member of this frat. “Glad you could make it!” 

“Uh-huh!” Amelia shouts, then lowers her voice to speak to me. “Hey. I’m gonna go grab some drinks. You want something?” 

“Fuck yeah,” I say. “I’ll come with you.” 

Between the two of us, we drink a lot of beer. I lose count of how many red Solo cups we down, and I smash the last one in my hand as the house continues to spin quicker and quicker. 

“Shit, I’m drunk,” I slur, holding onto her shoulders for support. 

“April,” she says, equally as gone. “You’re so damn beautiful. You know that? You’re so damn beautiful?” 

“You’re so nice, Amy,” I say, smiling as best I can. 

“I could just kiss you,” she says, drawing out the ‘s’ sounds. “You’re so pretty. I just wanna kiss you.” 

“So, kiss me, bitch,” I say, pulling myself closer. I have next to no scruples at this point. Logic has packed up and left my brain. Rationale has stopped trying. Alcohol has taken over everything. 

“Everyone’s watching,” she stage-whispers, and I look around to see a good handful of eyes on us. 

“So fucking what,” I say, then take her face in my hands and plant a big, wet kiss on her lips.

“April and Amelia are making out!” someone shouts, but I’m not sure who.

She smiles against my mouth and keeps kissing me. When her tongue touches mine, I part my lips and let it fully inside - she tastes like I do: beer and bad decisions. 

“Guys, guys, guys, guys, guys,” Addie says, coming out of nowhere. “No, no, no.”

She pulls me off Amelia which, on my unsteady legs, sends me flying and I eventually fall on my ass. 

“Ow,” I say, on the floor.

“Sorry, babe,” she says, standing in front of Amelia. “But you don’t wanna do that. Everyone’s watching like you’re some sideshow. Don’t do that, it’s not cute.” 

I throw my head back and groan dramatically. “But  _ mom _ ,” I whine. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard enough out of you,” Addison says, pulling Amelia away. 

I spend a few more minutes on the floor, contemplating what to do next, when a pair of legs appears next to me. I stare at the shoes for a while, studying the laces tied loosely on sneakers, then travel up the jeans, the shirt, the neck, the face. It’s Owen Hunt. 

“Need a hand?” he asks. 

“Mmm, sure,” I say, and raise my arm. 

He helps me stand and I tilt side-to-side once I’m upright.

“You good?” he asks, chuckling. 

I laugh in return. “I’m great,” I say. 

“Just saw you and Girl Shepherd all over each other,” he says, nodding towards the space where we’d been standing. 

“Oh, yeah…” I say. “She’s my best friend.” 

“It was hot,” he says. “You guys do that a lot?” 

“Eh,” I say, shrugging. “When I’m drunk. And I am  _ drunk _ . I’m drunk off my ass.” 

“I see that,” he says. “Are we celebrating something?” 

I take a Solo cup from someone passing by and slug it. “Fuck men!” I shout. “To fucking men!” Then, I burst out laughing at myself. “Not like that. Well… yeah, kind of. That’s not how I… oh my god, I am so drunk.” 

“Yes, you are,” he says. “You wanna sit down?” 

“Probably good,” I say, and follow as he leads me to the couch. 

We sit next to each other, thighs touching, with one of his arms around the back of my shoulders. He doesn’t touch me, it only rests on the cushion, but the proximity is noticeable all the same. Even in my inebriated state. I don’t ask him to move, though. 

“I like your outfit,” he says. “You look hot.” 

“Thanks,” I say, looking down. My skirt has ridden up a bit as I’m sitting, so there’s very little left to the imagination. I adjust my top as it comes to mind, and his eyes drift to my chest.

“Look at this little zipper,” he says, eyes trained on it. Then, his hand moves. “What would happen if I just pulled it a bit, like this?” 

He inches the zipper down by just a fraction. 

“Hey!” I giggle, and smack him away. “Stop. I have nothing on under this.”

“Even better,” he says, leaning back to watch me. 

“Don’t be naughty,” I say, blinking heavily. 

“Or what?” he says. 

“I don’t know,” I say, giggling. 

He stares at my mouth without trying to hide it. I lick my lips, and he edges a little closer. 

“I know you wanna kiss me,” I say, smirking. 

He takes that as a cue to move forward. In one swift motion, his lips are pressed roughly against mine, mouth open. I raise my eyebrows with surprise and try to match his movements, but he’s going much faster than I can comprehend. I’m too drunk to keep up very well. 

“Whoa, whoa,” I say, pulling away with a grin. “Slow down.” 

He meets my eyes for a moment before going at me again. His lips are dry and his stubble is scratchy against my cheeks, chafing them as he kisses me hard. I concentrate on reciprocating, trying to do the best I can, and tip my head to the side when he goes for my neck. 

His hands circle around my waist, thumbs digging into the front of my hip bones. He licks my throat before moving to my chin, then back up to my lips where he attacks me with his tongue yet again. 

None of this feels good. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything. But still, I let him do it because it’s making him happy, and because I don’t have much else going for me right now. I’m also too drunk to have any agency at all. 

When his hands find my breasts, they squeeze - tight and desperate. I flinch from the pain, but it only propels him further. 

“Ow, ow,” I say. “Too rough.”

He tips my head back and licks my neck again, this time slower. 

“Let’s go someplace quiet,” he says, and I sit up. “God, you’re so fuckin’ hot.” 

I trail behind him all the way upstairs until we get to an unlocked bedroom. It’s much calmer up here - the music doesn’t reach at the same intensity, it sounds far away and untouchable. We must be the only people on the second floor, because suddenly I feel very alone with him.

“Come on,” he says, leading me inside. 

Once the door is shut behind us, he’s all over me again. His hands, lips, teeth and tongue find every open inch of skin and try to brand it. He walks me backwards towards the bed until my knees buckle and I fall back onto it, then he overlaps my body with his own.

The skirt prevents me from spreading my legs to give him any room, but he doesn’t seem to mind. All he’s thinking about is kissing and touching me, and all I’m thinking about is when this will end. He’s not a good kisser by any means, and his hands are too quick, too forceful. 

“Owen,” I say, breaking apart for a mere second. “Maybe we should slow down.” 

“You don’t wanna slow down,” he says. “You were kissing Girl Shepherd just like this a few minutes ago. Come on, April. Show me a good time. I know you can.” 

I furrow my eyebrows and try to continue. My lips grow sore as we kiss, and not in a good, sated way. In a hurtful kind of way, a pain I don’t want to stomach. 

“Owen,” I say, and turn my face away. 

But then, all he does is kiss my jaw and neck. 

“Owen, can we maybe just stop and talk for a little while?” I say, wriggling beneath him. “Maybe we can just slow down?” 

The room tilts on an axis and makes me dizzy. I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes to right it, but it doesn’t work. 

“You don’t wanna talk,” he murmurs, lips against my ear. 

His hands find my breasts again and he grips them just as tightly. He only stays there for a moment before sliding lower to the hem of my skirt, and I quickly press my knees together. 

“We should probably stop,” I say, as he strokes my bare thighs. 

“Why?” he says. “You’re having a good time.”

“No, I’m not,” I insist. 

“You’re drunk,” he says. “You said it yourself. So, you don’t really know if you’re having a good time or not. Let me show you… I can show you how good it can be.” 

“Owen, stop,” I say, laughing uncomfortably as I try to sit up. 

“You stop,” he says, voice changing, growing more authoritative. 

He shoves me down with one hand on my shoulder and pushes the other up my skirt. His fingers graze the crotch of my panties, the fabric over my core, but I clench my thighs in attempts to keep him away. 

“Please, stop,” I say, voice wavering.

“Shhh…” he says, yanking the front of my underwear a few inches down my thighs. “You’re okay.” 

“Owen-” I say, but my voice breaks. He chuckles, unrelenting.

Swiveling his wrist, he roughly pushes two fingers inside me. Not slow, not gentle, not with any care shown to my protests. He shoves them in to the second knuckle, and my body freezes for a split second before I fly into hysterics.

“Stop it!” I shriek, frantically. “Get off me! Get off! Get the fuck off me right now!” 

I flail, kicking my legs as best I can, and close my fist. With that closed fist, I punch him in the side of the head repeatedly, as hard as I can. It hurts my fingers and cracks my bones, but that pain I don’t feel. All I know is I need him away from me, I need his fingers out of me, and violence is the only solution.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, yanking his hand out to cradle his head. “Shut your mouth, bitch. I barely touched you.” 

I can’t form words. Now, while looking at him, I simply scream. And responding to my scream, the door flies open and Addison stands there, bewildered. 

“April?” she says. 

“Fucking cunt,” Owen bellows, and storms away from the bed. “Tease.” 

I shudder in response to his loud, abrasive voice and brace myself to get hit. That’s what comes after being scolded: getting hit.

But instead of laying a hand on me, he leaves. Addison takes a few steps forward, but before she reaches me, I stumble to my feet, still spinning, and totter towards the door. 

“Honey, are you okay?” she says. 

“I need my phone,” I say, and push past her. 

I miraculously find my purse downstairs, untouched. I’m not sure if Addison is following me, but I burst out of that house to stand on the porch, where it’s snowing gently. In comparison to the ruckus inside, outside is unsettlingly tranquil. Like what happened in there never happened at all. 

I dial with badly shaking fingers. They’re trembling so badly I have to try three times before getting the contact right. And I need the right contact - because he’s the only person I want, he’s the one I need, he’s my lifeline. 

When I finally press the right buttons, the phone only rings once before Jackson answers. 

“Hello?” 

I take a big gulp of harsh, frigid winter air. When I plan the words to say, they catch in my throat and instead come out as violent, ear-shattering sobs. 

“April?” 

“I need you,” I manage to say, somehow. “Please, come get me. Someone just tried to rape me.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Mention/recollection of sexual assault.

**JACKSON**

My apartment has always been silent. I’m not one for playing music in the background or keeping the TV on. It was full of life for a little while, during April’s stays, but it’s back to being unnervingly still in her absence.

I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the moment she stormed out. Nor have I stopped beating myself up for letting her go. Right then, I knew I should’ve told her. But I was put on the spot, exposed, bare and vulnerable. It was the heat of the moment; I couldn’t have asked her to sit down and listen to me explain my trauma.

So, instead, I let her assume the worst. I didn’t know what else to do. I was powerless in every aspect. She thought I didn’t return the sentiment because I don’t love her, which is entirely not true. I am completely and utterly in love with her.

I miss her terribly. I miss her sparkling eyes, luminescent smile, and musical laugh. I miss her willowy arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me close, and I miss her soft lips on my face. I miss listening to her tangents on material from class, and I miss listening to her sing along with the radio. 

I haven’t been able to turn it on since she left, knowing that the Top 40 station will play.

I don’t know how to go about fixing what broke between us or how to get her back. I’ve been trying desperately to figure out a solution, but I’ve come up with nothing. I ruined the special connection we created because my emotions spiraled out of control. I couldn’t get a good grip on them, so our glass romance shattered. 

I should’ve known it was so fragile. I should’ve been more careful. I shouldn’t have let myself fall for her in the first place, but that was inevitable. To me, April is a magnet I can’t stay away from. 

She won’t stay out of my head, either. Even more so without her physically next to me, she reigns over every waking thought. 

Interrupting the silence, my cell phone rings. I close the book that I hadn’t been reading so much as staring at, then cross the room to grab it. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s April who’s calling - her contact photo is a snapshot of her grinning so hard her eyes are closed, my arm sturdy around the front of her chest. She’d been leaning back against me, standing as we waited for the train. 

“Hello?” I answer.

I hear a sharp breath on the other end, then loud, heart-wrenching sobs. These sobs are so loud that they barely sound human; they’re the physical embodiment of pain and suffering. I’ve never heard something like this before. 

“April?” I say, worried. 

“I need you,” she cries, voice broken and waterlogged. “Please, come get me. Someone just tried to rape me.” 

My entire body freezes and I stop breathing. I can’t compute what she just said - it can’t be right. There must be a mistake. 

“What?” I say. “April, what?” 

“He touched me!” she screams. She screams so hard her voice rattles. “He touched me, and I hit him! I hit him! I didn’t mean to hit him, and I hit him! His fingers… he fingered… Jackson, please just come and get me!” 

“I’m coming,” I say, shoving my feet into my shoes and grabbing my keys. I sling my coat over one arm, pulling it on as I sandwich the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Where are you? Give me an address. Give me an address, April.” 

“I don’t know,” she sobs. “I don’t know!” 

“Are you on campus?” I ask. 

“I think so.” 

“A house or an apartment?”

She starts crying again, barely able to catch her breath.

“Come on, baby, talk to me. Keep talking to me. House or apartment?” 

“The Alpha Delta Phi house,” she says. “That’s all I know. That’s all I know, just please come get me, are you coming?” 

“I’m on my way right now,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the car on. “Stay where you are, okay? I’m coming to get you.” 

I hang up the phone and drive as fast as I can, weaving through other cars and running red lights to get to her. I pay no mind to the speed limit and hope there are no cops out, because I can’t afford any minutes wasted. 

Someone touched her. Someone violated her. Someone hurt her.

My stomach twists and turns, and hot bile rises in my throat. I swallow it back down, though. I can’t throw up. I don’t have time to pull over and throw up. 

I haven’t been this angry in years. I can’t think straight - the only thing on my mind is that I need to find out who did this and kill them. Not figuratively, either. Once I know their name, they’re not safe. They’re in real danger of being murdered by my bare hands, and I would feel no remorse. 

Someone hurt her. The woman I cherish, the thing I hold closest in life, someone took advantage of her goodness and assaulted her. I won’t stand for it. 

I stomp on the brakes once I pull up to the frat house, having no trouble finding it. It’s the only house on the block with every light on.

I put my BMW in park and leave it running, but get out with purpose. I have every intent of getting this person’s name and going in that house to find them. In this instant, the fact that I’m a professor leaves my mind and all I care about is getting redemption for the love of my life.

I feel sick. I couldn’t protect her from this, just like no one protected me from it. How am I any better than my father? 

My rage only grows stronger with that thought. 

I slam the car door and power-walk around the front, shoes pushing through the snowy grass without bothering to use the cement path. There isn’t anyone outside, and I plan on bursting through that door and making as big of a scene as I have to. 

Before I get there, though, April comes out. She’s wearing nothing but a patterned mini-skirt and a black crop-top, and she’s shivering though she’d just been inside. 

“Jackson,” she says, and runs towards me.

I embrace her, holding her close and tight, letting her know without words that I’m here now. She’s safe in my arms and I have her. I won’t let anything else happen to her. 

“Go to the car,” I say. “Wait for me. Who did it? Who hurt you?” 

She pulls back and looks at my face, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “You’re not gonna do that.” 

“Just tell me who it was,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. 

She starts to cry, chin quivering as tears pour down her cheeks. “No,” she says. “Jackson, can we just please go? I don’t want to be here anymore. He’s gone. He left.” 

“Then, I’ll go find him,” I bark. 

“No!” she pleads, yanking on my arm to pull me back towards the car. “Please, just take me home. I want to leave, I wanna get out of here.” 

I turn to look at her and find her face flushed pink, eyes swollen, snot dripping from her nose and mixing with tears. 

“Please, baby,” she begs. “Please. I don’t wanna be here anymore. Please.”

“Okay,” I say, winding a sturdy arm around her shoulders to lead her to the car. “Okay. We’ll go. We’re leaving.”

I open the passenger’s side door and help her sit, then go around to my side. Before I get situated, though, I take my coat off and drape it over her.

She doesn’t talk during the ride home. She doubles over, forehead on her knees. I can’t tell if she’s crying, but I don’t bother her. I don’t touch her. 

When we’re in the parking garage, I park and shut off the car. The silence sits with us like a something sentient, and I turn to her. She’s still bent in half, back shaking under my thick coat. Her hair, though straight, is sticking up every which way. 

“April,” I say. “We’re home.”

She lifts up, makeup smeared on her face. In the dim light of the yard, I hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe, it hadn’t been this bad. 

“Everyone knows,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I can’t get out. They’ll all know.”

I open my mouth to refute her, but rescind my words before they come out. I know that feeling. It seems like the fact is painted overtop the skin, showcasing the shame to the world. I’ve been where she sits; in a way, I’m still there. Even though it’s irrational, it still feels like everyone must know. 

“I’ll help you,” I say, and walk around to her side. 

I guide her out of the car and keep my arms wrapped around her while we go inside. In the elevator, she collapses against my chest and hides her face, winding her arms around the small of my back, fingertips digging in. 

“We’re here,” I say, once we reach my floor. “We’re home.” 

My gut sinks as I dread what I have to say next. There’s no option - I won’t sit back and let who hurt her get away with this. And as each moment passes, evidence dies. As time goes by, he gets closer to being let off the hook.  

“April,” I say. 

When I speak, her round eyes flit to mine. She’s still trembling. 

“We have to call the police,” I say, gently. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. Her lower lip juts out and quivers, a threat to start crying again. “No,” she repeats. “I want to shower and go to sleep. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to… no, Jackson. No.” 

I sigh sympathetically, looking at her with emotion in my eyes. “I know it’s hard,” I say. “But if you don’t, whoever attacked you will continue to do this. If we do something, he’ll get punished. There will be consequences.” 

She stays quiet, but still shakes her head. 

“I’m right here,” I say. 

“I just want to shower,” she insists.

I sigh again. “You can’t,” I say. “There’s… evidence on you. It can’t be washed off until after.”

Her expression morphs into one of alarm. “After what?” she says.

“A rape kit,” I say.

She shakes her head fiercely. “I wasn’t raped,” she says. 

I clear my throat. I feel sick again. 

“The definition of rape is the penetration of the mouth, vagina, or anus with a sex organ or another part of a person’s body, without the other person’s consent.” I look up at her and see she’s chewing fervently on her lower lip. “It encompasses more than you think.” 

She inhales, loud and rickety. She holds the breath for a beat, then swallows thickly. 

“I was raped,” she murmurs.

I barely know what to say. I don’t know how to approach this, because I’m terrified that any step I take will trigger me and send my thoughts to a place where I don’t need them. I need to be here, with her. My own trauma can’t resurface through hers. 

“I don’t want to talk,” she says, folding, wrapping her arms around herself. 

“You don’t have to,” I say. “I can.” 

“You don’t know what happened,” she says, very quietly. So quiet, I strain to hear. 

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You can tell me, or you don’t have to. All I need to know is that it happened. That’s all they need. And we can go in and figure out the rest in person. You don’t have to worry about recounting the-” 

“It was Owen, and he fingered me,” she says. She’s shaking so hard that her zipper clacks against the metal tracks beneath it. “I was really drunk. I said yes at first, then I didn’t. We were kissing. He was rough. He was strong and heavy. He put his hand up my skirt. He put his fingers inside me. Then I… then I…” 

She throws herself at my chest, hugging tighter than I’ve ever felt. I hug her back, tears stinging my eyes, and simply hold her. 

“I hit him,” she wails. “Just like my dad, I hit him. I’m just like my dad.” 

I pull back and hold her face, bewildered. “No,” I say sternly. “You lashed out to defend yourself. Never say that again.” 

She breaks down in tears, and I go over what all she said. Owen. Owen Hunt. All this time, I should’ve known. He’s been giving me awful vibes for months, and now I know why. Because he’s a predator and a rapist. He violated an angel and turned her against herself. He deserves to die, or rot in prison. One of which, I hope I can make happen. 

“Sit here,” I say. “I’m going to call.” 

I get on the phone with the police station, and the hospital after that. The police take down the information, and what DNA evidence is collected from the rape kit will get sent to them as well. 

“We have to go,” I tell April, who’s sitting on the couch in a near-catatonic state. She has to be exhausted, but this won’t wait. 

“I wanna shower, Jackson,” she says, practically begging. 

“I know, baby. But you can’t. I’m sorry.”

I help her into a coat and then out the door. 

“You don’t know how dirty I feel,” she says, sounding small. “You don’t know what it feels like to have someone else’s hands on you against your will. You don’t. You don’t know what that’s like.” 

I stare straight ahead, jaw set. 

“Yes, I do,” I say, and leave it at that. 

For now.

…

April refuses to be in the hospital room alone. Even though the examiner is female and very comforting, she clings to me when I head towards the door. I wasn’t leaving because I wanted to, but because I thought doing so would respect her privacy. 

“Where are you going?” she asks desperately, standing in the middle of the room still in her party clothes. 

“I was… I was going to give you some…” 

“Don’t go,” she says. “Stay. Please, stay with me.” 

“Okay,” I say. I look towards the examiner, who will be handling the procedure. “Is that okay?” 

“It’s perfectly fine,” she says. “Whatever April is comfortable with, that’s what we want to do.” 

“I want him here,” April says, looking quickly between the two of us. “I want him here.” 

“Okay,” the nurse says, gently. “Then, he’ll stay.”

She stands atop a paper sheet and undresses, taking off the miniskirt and zip-up crop top. The paper is there to catch anything that could be used as evidence - hair, skin, DNA of any kind. 

She has bruises on her thighs that weren’t visible before. I train my eyes on them, unable to look away until the bruises on her knuckles come into view. The examiner photographs both sets, and April fans out her fingers with great difficulty. 

“I punched him,” she says. 

The examiner nods as the flash goes off, then moves to April’s torso. I notice the fading hickeys that still reside there, the ones I gave her a few nights prior. That night feels like centuries ago now. 

“Are these from your attacker?” the examiner asks.

April looks down, inhaling so her ribs show. “No,” she says, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. “They’re from him. They’re old, they’re not from… no.”

After settling that issue, the examiner swabs saliva after allowing April into a paper gown. It dwarfs her, even as I tie the back. It stands up around her shoulders and crinkles at the waist, kept together by my meticulous bow. 

She takes a skin sample, then talks to April about a vaginal one as well. 

“He didn’t… with his…” April says, face darkening. “It was his fingers. You won’t find anything.” 

“Okay,” the examiner says. In the beginning, she had gone through the process with April and said that any part could be declined as she went through it. “That’s understandable. Thank you for sharing that with me.” 

April nods.

“I’m going to take samples from under your fingernails, then,” she says. “There might be DNA evidence there.”

The examiner holds April’s hands as they lie limp and flaccid, scraping beneath her painted nails. They’re hot pink, shiny and un-chipped. Then, she combs through April’s hair as the last step, watching for anything that might fall onto the paper she’s still standing on.

“We have the same color hair,” April says, hiccuping with a small sob. “So, it might be-it might be hard to find.”

“Don’t worry,” the examiner says. “We know what we’re doing. It’s all about length and texture, and then past that - DNA. We’ll be able to tell it apart. You don’t need to worry.” 

April nods, sniffling. 

Her hair is long, so it takes a while. And the examiner goes slow, taking her time through snarls and tangles, making sure never to hurt her patient. April stands there, eyes focused on the wall, as the the red security blanket becomes hers again. 

I should’ve brought extra clothes. It hadn’t crossed my mind that the hospital would keep her party clothes for further examination and testing, and I have nothing extra in my car that would be appropriate. 

“I’m gonna stop at the gift shop,” I tell her, soft and soothing. “I’ll be back with something for you to wear. Wait here.”

I jog downstairs, where the shop is set up. It’s the middle of the night, so I’m surprised and grateful to find them still open. 

I go inside and pick out a size small yellow crew neck sweatshirt with curly script on the front, presumably the hospital logo. I don’t pay much attention, because I know fashion isn’t a concern. The clothes themselves will be the saving grace. 

I find a pair of white pajama pants with clouds and moons printed on them, and a pair of soft boots that look like Uggs. I’m not sure why they’re stocked here, but I don’t ask questions. I guess her shoe size and pay for the items, then hurry back to the girl who desperately needs them.

I set the folded wares onto the bed next to her, and she stares at them for a moment.

“There wasn’t much,” I say, still standing. “I did what I could.”

“Can you help me?” she asks. 

I look at her for a moment, sitting before me completely stripped in every sense of the word. The confidence she held not long ago has been washed away and taken to sea. Her vibrance is dulled, flame burnt down to the wick. The shine has lessened from her eyes, replaced with a cynicism, a certain safeguard. 

I recognize that wariness in her because I feel it myself. It’s not easy to hide.

I untie her hospital gown and pull the sweater over her head, gently lifting her hair out so it showers down her back. I hold the pajama pants as she steps into them while gripping my shoulders, and set the boots side-by-side on the floor. 

“You wanna go home?” I ask.

She nods, but doesn’t move. I sit down next to her, and she instantly leans against my side with her head on my shoulder. I lift one arm and hold her, lifting it to cradle her face. I kiss the opposite temple repeatedly, softly, keeping my lips where they are. 

“April,” I murmur. 

She holds my leg as she tries to get closer. To remind herself where she is physically, she digs her fingers in and holds tight, but I don’t mind. I understand the need of a grounding force. 

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You need to know how sorry I am, for everything. For letting you walk out, about this happening to you… from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry,” I say.

She sniffles, nods. 

“And…” I clear my throat, the words pushing and forcing their way up my throat, begging to come out. “And April, I love you. I love you, too.” 

She stills, gone rigid for a moment. But only a moment. After the initial shock passes, she turns further to the side and wraps her arms around me as tight as she can, and that’s as much of a response as I need.

…

We get home close to 6am. The rape kit process wasn’t quick, and neither was the interaction with the police. 

Exhaustion is written all over April’s face. She had to recount her story twice to different detectives, alone in an office I wasn’t allowed inside. The best they could do was keep the door open, and she kept looking back where I waited in the lobby, eyes full of distress. I was helpless. 

So, now, as we walk inside the warm apartment, I’m willing to do anything for her. 

“Do you want to shower?” I ask. “Take a bath, maybe?"

She tucks her hair behind her ears with quaking hands. “I need to call Alex,” she says. 

I frown a bit. “Baby, it’s late. Or, well, early. You-”

“They blew up my phone,” she says, showing me the screen with endless notifications on it. “I have to call and tell him I’m not dead. Just him. At least him.” 

“Okay,” I say. “Okay. I get it.”

She sits on the couch, staring at the phone. She stares for a long time, until the screen dims and the notifications go away.

“I’m scared,” she finally says. “Can you stay here?” 

“Wherever you want me,” I say. 

“Here,” she says, then wakes her phone back up. 

She dials Alex’s number and puts it on speakerphone, maybe to feel less pressure. He answers before the first ring finishes. 

“April,” he says. “Where are you? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Alex,” she says, voice quiet and weak in comparison to his urgency. 

“I’ve been off my ass worried about you, dude! Where are you? Addie and Amelia said you left the party. Who are you with? Why were you screaming? They said you were screaming, but they didn’t know why.” 

Her lips part, and in the close proximity I see how chapped they are. I remind myself to give her Chapstick before she falls asleep. 

“Alex,” she says. “I’m going to tell you something.” 

“Dude, you’re fuckin’ scaring me. Where are you right now? Do you need me to come and get you? I’ll take the damn bus and come get you. Where are you?” 

“I’m safe,” she says. “I’m safe.” 

“But do you need me to come and get you?” he asks, pitch rising. 

“No,” she says. “But I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to do anything crazy. But I have to tell you.” She pauses for a moment, probably waiting for him to cut in, but he doesn’t. “I was assaulted,” she says. “Sexually assaulted.” 

His silence changes from worried to downright livid. 

“I’ll fuckin’ kill whoever… who was it, April? Who was it? Was it the professor? Was it the fuckin’ professor?” 

“Stop it, Alex!” she shrills, which surprises all three of us. Her chest heaves with exertion after. “No. And don’t say something like that.”

“Then, who was it?” he persists. 

She bites her bottom lip and draws it into her mouth, furiously gnawing on it. She darts her eyes to mine, and I match her expression. It’s not my choice whether she tells Alex who did it; that’s on her. 

“It wasn’t Jackson,” she says. 

“You said that. But April, who?” he pushes.

She lifts her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them, the phone resting atop one. 

“I already reported it to the police and went to the hospital,” I say. “It doesn’t matter who did it.” 

“Yes, it does,” he says. 

“No, Alex!” she cries. “No. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I won’t be home for a while. I’m going to stay with Jackson.” 

Alex lets out a long sigh, coming to grips with the fact that she’s not okay while simultaneously being okay. Physically, she’s safe. Mentally, far from it. 

“Can you please tell Addie and Amy that I’m going to be gone?” 

“Where am I supposed to tell them you’re at?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Think of something. I can’t help you with that right now. I just dont… I don’t want them to call me.” 

“Do you want me to tell them what happened?” 

“No,” she answers, withdrawn. “No.” 

“Okay,” he says. “I won’t.” There’s a small pause. “Are you sure you’re okay, dude?” 

“I’ll be fine,” she whispers, head hung low. “I’m gonna get off the phone now.” 

“Alright,” he says, with a sigh. “Hey, A.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I love you. You know that, right?” 

“Yeah,” she says, smiling at the carpet. “I love you, too.” 

“Call if you need anything,” he says. 

“Alex,” she says. “Can you water my plant?” 

“Liesel?” 

“Yeah,” she says, and another small smile inches onto her lips. 

“Can do,” he says. 

She hangs up and sets the phone face-down on the couch cushion. She stares ahead for a moment before turning to me, wearing an expression I can’t read. 

“I want to take a shower now,” she says. 

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get it started for you.” 

As I stand, she stays sitting. Hands on her knees, back straight, eyes unblinking. She’s a shell, a husk of a person, and I want badly to bring her back to the land of the living. I won’t pull her, though. Life takes time. 

I turn the shower on and collect a few towels that I set on the ledge by the tub. I make sure there’s enough of everything inside - shampoo, conditioner, fancy soaps - then go get her. 

“Ready for you,” I call, and her head turns minutely before standing.

April comes into the bathroom and I give her a cordial smile, meeting her eyes briefly. 

“Take your time,” I say. 

“Wait,” she says, lingering with her fingers on the drawstrings of her pajama pants. “Aren’t you going to stay in here?” 

“I… I wanted to give you your privacy,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to be alone.”

I back away towards the door and stand awkwardly in the middle distance, gauging what to do and where to be. I’m aware of how fragile this situation is. I’m still in it, to a certain degree. I don’t want to make a wrong move. For her, I want everything to be right. I want her recovery to be thorough and careful. Nothing glazed over, nothing rushed, everything at her pace. 

So, if she wants me here, I’ll stay. 

“You can sit down,” she says. “You don’t have to talk. I just want you in here with me.” 

I nod and rest on the lip of the tub, averting my eyes as she undresses and climbs into the shower. Partly because I don’t want her to feel exposed, and partly because I don’t want to see those bruises again. 

The water splashes as she moves under it, and I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. Steam heats up the room as time passes, and I don’t hurry her. I’m familiar with letting the water scald the unwanted fingerprints away from the skin’s surface. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that helps. Being burnt is the price of being wholly clean. 

“Jackson,” she says, soft voice interrupting my thoughts. 

“Hmm. I’m right here.” 

“I know,” she says. “Would you sing something?” 

I sit up fully. “Sing something?” 

“Yeah.” 

I raise my eyebrows, blanched. “I… don’t know what I’d sing.” 

“Anything,” she says. “I just want to hear your voice.” 

I let a slow stream of air out from my lips as I rack my brain. The only song that comes to mind is the one she told me she liked on the radio; it’s been stuck in my head ever since. 

I clear my throat. “Feels like forever, even if forever’s tonight… just lay with me, waste this night away with me. You’re mine, I can’t look away... I just gotta say… I’m so - fuckin’ - happy - you’re a - live.” 

The water turns off. I hear a ton of it hit the floor as she wrings out her hair, then her face appears wearing a soft smile when the glass door opens. 

“Mine, by Bazzi,” she says. “You remember that?” 

“I haven’t been able to get it out of my head,” I say, and hand her a towel. 

She wraps herself up - body and hair - then looks down at herself. “I have no pajamas,” she says. “I don’t want to wear the hospital clothes.” 

“Okay, don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll find you something.” 

Moments later, we’re both dressed in pajamas of mine. I have on a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs and no shirt, and she’s wearing a pair of baggy blue boxers and a t-shirt with a beer logo on it that’s much too big. 

She brushes through her hair slowly. Though it lays straight down her back after she runs through it, the waves come through almost instantly as it begins to dry. When she’s finished, she leans against me and I thread the fragrant locks through my fingers all the way to the ends. 

I missed her. I missed everything about her. 

Right now, I’m actively blocking Owen Hunt from my mind, because if I go there, I won’t come back. I’ll leave this house in search of him, and kill him once I get there. I can’t think about him, I can’t think about what happened. At the moment, for April, I must compartmentalize. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” she says, entwining her bony, dainty fingers with my sturdy ones. 

“How about if I read to you?” I suggest.

She looks at my face, a tiny glint of hope and interest in her eyes. 

“I got my own copy of  _ The Book Thief _ ,” I admit, the nod to where it sits on my nightstand. 

“Would you read to me?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, then make a small sound. “Do you want to sit, or lay? I want to do whatever’s comfortable for you. I don’t even have to sleep in here tonight, either, just so you know. I’ll gladly take the couch.” 

She’s quiet for a moment as she looks at me, wet hair pulled out of her eyes. It’s tucked cleanly behind her ears, making her moon face more round and vulnerable than I’m used to. 

“I want you here,” she says. “I want to be by you, I wanna be with you. I don’t want you to go anywhere.” She blinks heavily. “It happened to me when I was alone. I don’t want to be alone again.” 

“Okay,” I say, and move to rest against the headboard. 

Quietly and carefully, she nestles against my side. With one hand on my bare stomach, she lays her head on my chest right over my heartbeat, and I nudge my glasses up and open to the spot where we’d left off before. 

“The Eclipse,” I begin, stating the chapter title. “Next is a signature black, to show the poles of my versatility, if you like. It was the darkest moment before the dawn.”

Her fingers draw loopy, feather-light circles on my torso. It causes the hair there to stand and goosebumps to rise, and I relish the feeling. I relish the fact that I’m  _ feeling _ in general. 

“This time, I had come for a man of perhaps twenty-four years of age. It was a beautiful thing in some ways. The plane was still coughing. Smoke was leaking from both its lungs.” 

She flattens her hand and smooths it over my skin, using her arm to hug my waist closer as she gets more comfortable, settles in. 

“When it crashed, three deep gashes were made in the earth. Its wings were now sawn-off arms. No more flapping. Not for this metallic little bird.” 

Her breathing changes slightly, body grows a bit heavier against mine. 

“Some other small facts. Sometimes I arrive too early. I rush, and some people cling longer to life than expected.”

April is asleep; I know that much. I close the book and stay sitting up, just holding her, eyes resting ahead. She has me in a vice-grip, but it’s not something I’m complaining about. If she needs me to be her anchor, her anchor I will be. The calm in the storm, the lighthouse more than anything else. I’ll make sure she knows my presence is one she can always depend on.

After a good hour passes and she’s deeply asleep, I lie down and reach to switch the light off. I maneuver us into a more comfortable position and she adjusts with me, keeping those arms wrapped tight with her head situated in the crook of my arm. 

I fall asleep quickly, too. It’s a deep sleep, woken a few hours later only because I hear April’s distressed voice. 

“Jackson?” she whimpers, and I blink open my eyes to realize we must have moved away from each other in sleep. “Jackson, where are you?” 

“Hey,” I say, rolling over onto my side to face her. “I’m here. Baby girl, come here. I’m right here.” 

When she looks my way, her eyes shine in the low light from the moon. 

“Oh,” she says, then gravitates towards me. 

She tucks her arms into her chest and presses her forehead against my sternum, so I wrap both arms around her and hold her close and secure. 

“Stay with me,” she murmurs, legs woven through my own. 

I stroke the back of her head, close my eyes, and kiss her forehead. 

“Always.” 


	13. Chapter 13

**APRIL**

When I open my eyes the next morning, I wake up warm.

Jackson is so close that my eyelashes bat against his bare chest, dragging over the skin slowly. That’s the only move I make - I don’t adjust my arms or legs, I don’t stretch, I simply stare at the expanse of skin laid before me. It’s smooth, soft, and radiating heat. 

With the way we’re lying, he cradles my head with his chin resting on top of it. His breath comes slow, but not deep. He’s awake. 

My mind is thick with fog and confusion. For a moment, I have no clear idea as to why I’m here in this bed. I enjoy it, but I don’t know the reason. Sleepily, I come to the conclusion that Jackson and I must have made up and I spent the night as a reunification. 

But as I become more wakeful, I realize that’s not it at all. There was a party last night. I was assaulted; I was violated. I remember going to the Alpha Delta Phi house, getting blackout drunk, and kissing Amelia. I know something horrible happened in between that and getting picked up by Jackson, but my mind’s eye won’t show it to me. 

I remember being in the car, the hospital, the police station. I remember coming back here and taking a shower, being read to, and falling asleep. I remember almost everything from last night, even with the copious amount of alcohol in my system, but I can’t remember the moments in which it happened. 

_ It _ . 

My rape.

My possible rape. 

If I can’t remember it, how real can it be?

I remember Jackson being gentle with me. Never leaving my side, because I asked him to stay. I remember him saying all the right things, being in all the right places, guiding me. I remember something specific he said, about how he knew what it was like to feel how I felt. How I still feel. 

Though the rest of the night is still blurry, that dialogue comes back clear as day.

_ You don’t know how dirty I feel. You don’t know what it feels like to have someone else’s hands on you against your will. You don’t. You don’t know what that’s like. _

_ Yes, I do. _

I was hurt last night. 

Jackson was hurt, too. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I think a part of me has always known. He’s a victim, too, of something horrible.

I move my hand, rubbing his stomach with my palm slowly. He likes being touched softly, gently, with care. Even though he likes to be in control, he has a soft spot for being nurtured. 

I pucker my lips and kiss his chest, nestling closer. He rubs my upper arm, presses a kiss to my hairline, and meets my eyes when I look up at him.

He smiles a good morning, and I give one in return. Without words, he reaches over to the nightstand and comes back with a tube of Chapstick, which he painstakingly smears across my cracked lips. 

I rub them together after they’re coated in balm, and he squeezes my shoulders. 

“Thank you,” I say. 

“Meant to do that last night,” he murmurs. 

“I appreciate it now.”

We lie there in silence for a while, just listening to the sounds of the other’s body. His heartbeat is a drum beneath my ear, steady and strong. His chest expands with every breath, lifting my head and reminding me of how physically in-sync we are as I inhale and exhale at the same rate.

I lose track of how long we don’t speak, but it’s a long time. So long, that my eyelids threaten to drift closed and my body grows heavier against his. I take that as a cue to start talking, because I don’t feel like falling asleep again. 

“I don’t remember it,” I mutter, voice crackly from disuse. 

His fingers move over the round of my shoulder, rubbing the baggy material of the shirt of his I’m wearing. “Hmm?” he says. 

“What happened,” I say. “I don’t remember.” 

“Anything?” 

I pause. “Some parts,” I say, then itch my ear. “Not everything. Not… when it happened.” 

I sigh and prop myself up on my elbow. I search his face, eyes wandering over his clear, sharp features. His eyes are beautiful in the morning light, nearly cerulean. His eyebrows are dark and stand out against his mahogany skin, matching the color of his trimmed, kept beard. I don’t know how I walked away from this face. 

The memory of leaving and the reason why come back, but soon become overshadowed by what he told me yesterday. He loves me, too. I hold onto those words while I try and recount my tragedy. 

“I remember drinking at the party,” I say, but find it hard to meet his eyes when I say the next part. “I remember kissing Amelia.” 

“Your friend?” he asks. 

I nod. “I… sometimes, we make out when I’m wasted.” 

“Oh,” he says, eyebrows furrowing just a bit. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “It’s a party thing. I don’t know why I do it. Probably because I know she won’t hurt me, I don’t know. But I remember that.” 

I look at him again, silently. As I collect my thoughts, I reach to the top of the headboard where his glasses sit, then slip them onto his face. Once I do, I kiss him gently on the lips and trace the lower one when I pull away.

“I remember kissing Owen. Well, he kissed me. And I remember that it hurt. I never knew kissing could hurt.”

Jackson’s eyes dampen. His demeanor grows smaller, duller. 

“I only remember the couch,” I say, scrunching my forehead as I rack my brain. “I don’t remember going upstairs, or moving to a bedroom. But I remember running down the stairs, so he must have taken me…” 

My voice trails off and dies. The next image is of myself on the front porch, trembling from the cold, phone pressed to my ear with Jackson on the other end. 

“I don’t remember what he did,” I admit.

There’s a vault inside my memory that won’t come unlocked, no matter how roughly I jiggle the key. It’s a blank spot, a gaping hole, that I can’t fill in myself. 

“I can’t remember, Jackson,” I say.

He looks at me soberly. “It might come back, it might not,” he says.

I consider asking him to tell me, because I’m sure he knows. But as soon as I open my mouth to ask, I change my mind and close it. If the memory comes back, it comes back. If it doesn’t after a certain amount of time, I’ll ask him to present it to me. Right now, though, I don’t want it. 

“Forgetting is easier,” he says. 

The tone of his voice is heavy and downtrodden. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard it so sullen, so morose, and it catches me off-guard. When I look into his eyes, shadows play behind the lenses of his glasses, though they try to stay hidden in the corners. Emotions toil in his gaze and make me gasp - something is rising to the surface, floating facedown like a body. 

“Baby,” I say, so soft it’s practically a whisper. 

Usually, he warms up with terms of endearment. They find their way straight to his heart. But when I say that pet name, his eyes don’t move. His face doesn’t light up, he doesn’t come close to thawing. 

“Baby,” I say again, stroking his forearm with feather-light fingertips. “What did you mean yesterday, when you said you know how it feels?”

I sit up and cross my legs while he stays on his back. He folds his hands over his bare stomach and stays centered on the ceiling; his only movement being the rise and fall of his hands over his belly as he breathes. It seems he even stops blinking, and I wonder if I pushed too hard. If I stepped over the line. 

I can’t predict his reaction, because his expression is placid. Unmoving, unfeeling, unyielding. He doesn’t speak. 

That is, until he does. 

“I was…” he says, then clears the raspiness from his voice and tries again. “I… was sexually abused by my grandfather from the ages of six to ten.” 

The blood drains from my face and drops to my gut, where it sinks and festers, then boils. With one simple statement, everything makes sense. Everything falls into place. The man in front of me - the professional, intelligent, confident man - has a mess of broken glass inside his mind. 

I swallow hard but don’t plan on responding. I don’t want to hinder the chances of him continuing, of putting the words out in the open that so desperately want to escape. 

“Every night,” he says, hands bunching together with more force now. “He would come into my room every night. Touch me. Make me touch him.” 

As Jackson speaks, he grits his teeth which makes his jaw swell. I fight tears and listen, giving the space he needs. 

“My father caught him once. Reprimanded him, gave him a slap on the wrist. It stopped for a while. I thought it was over for good. This was when I was about seven, maybe. But I was wrong; it didn’t stop. It started again not long after. He just waited until later at night to come in.” 

My heart breaks. I physically feel my chest splinter.

“My dad held a lot of power over my mom. She tried to believe me, but I was a kid. He was more persuasive. Convinced her I was a serial liar, just like I was a serial bedwetter. He tried to make her believe I was a bad kid. But she never did… she never did believe him on that.” 

His chin wobbles. My lips part in a soft gasp as I see his veneer falter.

“We moved out when I was ten. She felt guilty all her life.” He shakes his head, purses his lips. “She shouldn’t have. My father knew and said nothing. He should be the one that felt…” He pauses. “But he didn’t.” 

For the first time since he began, his eyes lock with mine. I hold his gaze like it’s precious, not wavering for a moment. 

“My grandfather used to tell me he loved me after,” he murmurs. “I was a child. It felt wrong, but I didn’t know why. He said he loved me. How could it be...?”

He expels a long exhale, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, they’re glazed over with long-overdue tears.

“That’s why I reacted the way I did when you said it,” he says. “Not because I don’t love you, not because I felt the same way as when he touched me, or anything like that. I didn’t expect for it to affect me like that. I know you’re you and not him. It didn’t make sense, the trigger. It-” 

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” I say, speaking up. 

He closes his lips, abridging the response. I’m not sure what to say, or if I should say anything more. I want to comfort him, but I’m not sure what’s appropriate. I don’t know if he wants to be touched or if he wants me to stay away, so I keep it subtle. 

I take his hand slowly, wrapping my fingers around his wide palm. I stroke the skin with purpose, then lift it to my face to kiss it. 

“I am so sorry,” I say. “I am. I am so sorry that happened to you, Jackson.” 

He turns his head, catching my eye. There’s a small moment of pause before he sits up and collapses against me, arms thrown around my waist, limp yet firm at the same time.

Jackson buries his face in my chest, and I hold his head in my arms as I lay us down. He cries loudly, unabashedly, finally letting unbridled emotions show. I keep a good grip on him, eyes closed, and stroke his hair while he sobs so hard it seems nearly inhuman. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he wails, his entire body trembling against mine. 

His head wobbles as he sobs, mouth open against my chest plate. The fabric of the t-shirt is damp with his tears, snot and saliva, but I don’t care. 

“Shouldn’t be doing what, baby?” I ask, face pressed into his hair. 

“This!” he exclaims. “I can’t be crying to you. You got hurt last night. You have your own problems… you don’t need mine, too. This is wrong, this is all wrong. I’m sorry, April. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” I say, holding him as close as I can. “I don’t want you to say you’re sorry. I want to be here for you, I want to help.” 

“I should be helping you!” 

“Shhh…” I soothe, petting his hair and dragging my fingers over the shells of his ears. “We’ll help each other. I’ll always be here for you.” 

“I’m always - here - for you,” he hiccups. 

“I know,” I say, rocking side to side. “I know. I’ve got you now. No one can touch you. I’ve got you.” 

Subconsciously, I know I’m telling this to us both.

…

The memory doesn’t come back in the days that follow. 

I email my professors and come to an agreement that I’ll take my exams online, and Jackson stays home with me. He can give most of his online, too, all except for one.

I wake up to find him already sitting up in bed next to me, glasses on, laptop open. He’s typing away in an otherwise silent room, and I get my bearings while I rub my eyes and watch him. 

“Morning, professor,” I say, voice coated in sleep. 

His eyes dart to me and soften instantly. “Hi, princess,” he says, then leans over to kiss my temple. “Sleep good?” 

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I do what I’ve done for the past two days since it happened - go back to that house, navigate through the halls, try and see myself on a bed. Under Owen. Fighting him off. Punching him, earning the bruises that turned my knuckles green and yellow. 

But I can’t see it; I can’t see any of it. 

“Mm-hmm,” I answer, slinking closer to hold his forearm while he types. 

“You kept kicking me,” he says. “Were you dreaming?” 

“Must’ve been,” I mutter, stroking his skin with my thumb. “Did I bother you?”

“No,” he says. “I calmed you down. I held you, and it stopped.” 

“I woke you up?” 

“You have strong legs,” he says, chuckling. 

“Geez, I’m sorry,” I say. 

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “You’re working through some difficult things right now. It’s to be expected.” 

“So are you,” I say, blinking up at him.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes drifting above the laptop screen to rest on the far wall. He closes the lid, sets it off to the side, and lies down on his side to face me. “Speaking of which, I have therapy tonight,” he says. “After the exam.”

“Oh,” I say.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, reaching to caress my cheekbone. “Have you thought any more about therapy?” 

I give him a blank stare. I don’t know what to think. Of course, it’s crossed my mind. I know how much the process has helped and will continue to help him. But I don’t see it helping me in the same way. I don’t have a good reason, which is precisely why I skirt the subject when he brings it up. 

“I don’t know,” I say. 

“It’s not the easiest thing to wrap your head around,” he says. “But I do think it would benefit you. I wouldn’t suggest it if I had any doubts.” 

“I know,” I say. “I trust you. I do. I’m just… I don’t think I’m ready.”

He nods, giving me an earnest look. “Okay,” he says, petting my hair and combing his fingers through it. “You go at your pace.” 

I smile and crane my neck to kiss him softly, sweetly. “I love you,” I whisper, still relishing the way the words curl around my tongue and sit in the middle, like a piece of hard candy. 

He kisses me again, cupping my jaw as he does. “I love you, too,” he says. 

Wrapping an arm around the small of my back, he pulls me close and simply holds me. I run my fingernails up and down his back, closing my eyes while I rest in the crook of his neck and get lost in all he is. 

“I have two exams today,” I say. 

“Hard ones?” he asks. 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, with a little giggle.

“That’s my girl,” he says, which makes me glow from the inside out. 

...

Later that day, I’m on the couch fresh from a shower while I work through my chemistry exam. Jackson comes out of his bedroom, smelling like shampoo and soap, and opens the fridge. 

“You hungry?” he asks. 

“Shh, baby,” I say. “I’m taking an exam.” 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, then continues to rummage around. 

A few moments later, he comes and sits in the middle of the couch, about a cushion and a half away from me. He brought a plate of cheese and crackers that he sets on the coffee table, then picks up my ankles to rest my bare feet in his lap.

I make quick eye contact, then divert my attention back to the test. He eats his snack quietly, then puts together a cracker and a piece of cheese to feed to me. 

“Thank you,” I say, mouth full. 

“Mm-hmm,” he says, squeezing each of my feet with his fingers curled around the arches. I glance at the juxtaposition and find that his hands dwarf them, which I’m thoroughly amused by. 

While I work, he runs a hand up my leg, under the material of the pajama pants I’m wearing - old and faded ones of his with the drawstring tied tight. He strokes my bony ankles absentmindedly as he eats, staring into space, content. 

I finish the essay portion of the exam while Jackson runs his palms over the tops of my socks, massaging my feet as his mind drifts elsewhere. When I shut the lid of the laptop, he looks over with a small smile.

“How’d it go?” he asks. 

“Good, I think,” I say, setting the computer on the floor. 

“Did you finish both?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say. “Now, I’m done for the day.” 

I close my eyes, lean my head back on the arm of the couch, and sigh loudly. His fingers stop moving and he simply holds my feet, then he inhales before speaking. 

“I have to leave soon,” he says. “I have to be on campus for that exam.” 

I open my eyes and swallow loudly. “What?” I say. 

“I’d offer for you to come, but you can’t,” he says. “It’s too… I just can’t have you there with me. The exam isn’t for our class.” 

I frown slightly. “I don’t want to be here alone,” I say. 

“I know,” he says, sighing. “But I’m not sure if there’s another option.” 

“Don’t go,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Stay. You don’t have to go.”

I grow fretful, desperate, grasping for straws. My insides twist as I contemplate the idea of being alone in this quiet apartment with only my thoughts to keep me company. I haven’t been without him in the past 48 hours since it happened, and I’m not ready. 

“Can’t you just put it online?” I ask. 

“This is one I have to be there for,” he says. “Remember, I told you about it last night.” 

“No, I don’t remember,” I say. “You didn’t tell me, so it’s not fair. You didn’t warn me. I don’t want to be alone, Jackson. I can’t be alone. You know that. Please, don’t leave. I’ll go crazy if you leave me here by myself.” 

My chest heaves with exertion, following my heavy breathing. 

“Princess,” he begins, but I don’t let him finish.

“Don’t ‘princess’ me to try and placate me!” I say, ripping my feet from his lap. “I need you, you know that. So, please, don’t go.”

“I don’t have a choice,” he says. “You’re presenting me with an impossible choice. You’re not being fair.” 

“It wasn’t fair what happened to me!” I refute. 

“I know that,” he says, staying calm. “That’s not what I… I know. I’m not sure what to tell you. Nothing’s going to hurt you while I’m gone. I have a top-of-the-line security system, cameras included. If anything sets them off-”

“You could put me in a castle surrounded by a moat and I’d still be scared,” I say, trembling. “I know nothing’s gonna come get me. It doesn’t have to make sense, it’s how I feel. Just like you knew I wasn’t your grandfather, but you were still terrified when I first told you I loved you.” 

He recoils, lips parting with shock. I went too far. That was cruel. 

“Wait, Jackson, I’m sorry,” I say, instantly backtracking. “I didn’t mean to... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I’m sorry.”

I hold my head tight in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. 

“I don’t know what’s going on in my head right now,” I say. “I just really don’t want to be alone.” 

He blinks slowly, wetting his lips while thoughts simmer in his head. I shouldn’t have said what I did, I know it was wrong, but I’m not exactly rational at the moment. That’s no excuse, though. Just because I’m in pain doesn’t mean I have to expose his wound. 

“Is Alex home?” he asks, finally speaking.

It hadn’t dawned on me to go home. I’ve only been at Jackson’s for about two days, but it feels like a lifetime. It feels like my life back at the townhouse doesn’t exist. I don’t miss anything, except for my wardrobe.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably.”

“What if you stayed with him? Just while I’m at school,” Jackson says. “It would give you a chance to grab some things, pack some clothes. See your friends.” 

“I don’t want to see Addie and Amelia,” I say. “I just want Alex. You can take me to see Alex.” 

He studies me. “What if the girls are there?” 

“Then, I’ll stay in the car when you go to school,” I say.

We come to a sort of agreement, and get ready to leave. When we pull up in front of the townhouse, Jackson’s slick BMW sticking out like a sore thumb, I dial Alex’s number.

“Hey, A, what’s up?” he says.

“Are you at the townhouse?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Why?” 

“Is anyone else home?” 

“Nah, just me. I’m just watching South Park. What’s going on?”

“I’m outside,” I say. “I’m gonna come hang out with you while Jackson goes to campus.” 

“Okay…” he says, and I hang up before he can finish, since I’ll see him in a few seconds. 

“You’re gonna be okay, right?” Jackson asks, one hand still on the wheel while looking at me. 

I nod and say, “I’m sorry for freaking out.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry for not thinking this through,” he says. 

“Still, you didn’t deserve what I said,” I say.

“Everything’s okay,” he says, then holds my chin to give me a soft kiss. “I’ll be back later.”

I get out of the car to find Alex watching from the porch, hands shoved into his pockets. His face is muddled with a myriad of different expressions, so many I don’t know where to begin in picking through them. 

“Hey,” I say, coming up the driveway. 

“Hey,” he echoes, then looks at the outfit I have on. It was the best I could do with what I was given at Jackson’s - the pajama pants from the hospital and an obscenely oversized crew neck sweatshirt with the Chicago Bulls logo on the front. “Nice getup.” 

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I thought I’d pick up some clothes while I’m here.” 

We go inside, and strangely enough, everything is the same. It’s strange, while at the same time very normal. Why should anything have changed, just because my life was turned on its head? There’s no reason for the house to look any different, be any cleaner, or flipped inside out. The world kept turning, even when mine stopped. 

I head towards the stairs while Alex gravitates back to the couch. I have a feeling he doesn’t exactly know how to behave around me. 

“Can you come with me?” I ask, daunted by the stairs and the thought of being alone in my own room. 

“Upstairs?” he asks, remote in his hand. 

“Yeah,” I say, wringing my hands. “I just don’t like being alone right now.”

“Oh,” he says, realizing. “Okay. Yeah, sure.” 

He follows me, right on my heels as I push open the door. I notice that things are a bit more organized since I left - clothes are folded on the bed, books are straightened on the desk. 

“Cleaned up a little bit while you were gone,” he says, shrugging. 

“Thank you,” I say. 

“Thought you’d appreciate it, you know. Just one less thing to think about,” he says. 

“I do,” I say, then lean over my bed to inspect the plant.

“Liesel’s been okay,” he says. “I think she’ll do better once it gets warm. She’s not a fan of the snow, I don’t think.” 

“I don’t think so, either,” I say, touching her fragile leaves. 

“Been watering her every day, though,” he says. “Brought her downstairs a few times to catch the good sunlight in the kitchen. Think she liked that.” 

I smile to myself. He can be so sweet.

I gather some clothes and place them in my backpack, rolling them so I’ll have enough room for a good amount. Alex watches and tries to seem casual, keeping quiet. I know he must want to ask me for details, pick my brain on what happened, but he doesn’t open his mouth. He waits and lets me lead. 

“Well, exams sucked,” he says, staring at his knees.

“Yeah,” I say. “All mine were online. I don’t know how I did.”

“Eh, bullshit. You aced them, and we both know it,” he says, chuckling.

I can’t help but join in laughing, too. 

“Are you going home for Christmas?” I ask. 

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Leaving tomorrow sometime. I gotta take the stupid megabus, since nobody can find the time to come pick me up. Wish me luck it doesn’t tip over.” 

I snort. “It’s not gonna tip over.”

“You never know,” he says. “But yeah. Going home to Indiana, the land of promise and possibility. Barf.” 

“You’ll have a good time,” I say.

“Yeah, if no one has a psychological break,” he says. “What are you doing?”

In years past, I’ve gone home with other people. One year I went with Amelia to the Shepherds’ Christmas, the next year I went with Addison for the Montgomerys’. Alex flat-out refused me to ever come with him, claiming his family is too crazy and I’d never want to be his friend again. 

“Staying here, with Jackson,” I say. 

He nods slowly and asks, “He treating you okay?” 

I glance at him momentarily before placing deodorant in my bag. Up until now, I’d been using Jackson’s and I’m tired of smelling like Old Spice, ‘Steel Courage.’ 

“He’s been great,” I say. 

Alex squints, trying to read me. “But before the party, you guys were…”

“I know,” I say, brushing it off. “But that’s over now, it doesn’t matter. It was petty. We figured it out, and… well, what happened sort of put things in perspective, I guess.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay.” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “You two, you guys. I’m glad you’re doing okay.” He meets my eyes for a split second before darting away. “I’m glad you’re okay, too. Just in general. Given everything.” 

“Yeah,” I say, zipping up my backpack slowly. “I am, too.”

He blinks hard, staring at my clean, white carpet. His brow is furrowed, it’s clear he either doesn’t know what to say or he does, but isn’t quite sure how to say it. 

“Alex-”

“I’m really sorry, dude,” he says, quickly, cutting me off. 

“Oh,” I say, crossing my arms over my torso. 

“I just feel like there was something I could’ve done,” he says. “You were fucked up. It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have let you go, I should’ve known. I should’ve done  _ something _ .” He breathes for a moment, looking up at the ceiling like it might give him answers. “I don’t know. Sorry. It’s just been driving me fucking crazy, that I was here at home not doing shit while that was happening to you, and I didn’t know.” 

“There was nothing you could’ve…” I say, voice small. 

“But maybe there was,” he says, eyes pinched shut. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

I’m not sure how to respond, because the same thoughts have been running through my mind, too. If I would’ve stayed home with Alex, if I wouldn’t have worn such a revealing outfit, if I wouldn’t have drank so much. Maybe what Owen did to me - what I can’t even remember - never would’ve happened. 

I still don’t know if I want to remember. 

“Addie and Amy feel bad, too,” he says. “They’ve been beating themselves up. They don’t really know what happened, I swear I didn’t say shit. But they get it was something bad, because, you know, you were screaming. They said they didn’t know you needed help, because you and Owen were dating.” 

That is what I told them. Why had I lied? What had I chosen him as my scapegoat? If I had chosen anyone else, would they have rushed to my aid instead of ignoring what was happening right in front of their faces?

“I don’t really want to talk about it anymore,” I mutter, and sling the bag over my shoulder. “Can we go downstairs?” 

Alex and I get settled on the couch after he makes lunch - a grilled cheese sandwich, white bread, provolone cheese. The only way either of us will have it. We in together in silence after he changes the channel away from South Park to something we both enjoy: What Not to Wear. 

“Oh, she looks like shit,” Alex says, through a mouthful of bread and cheese. 

I smack his leg easily from where I’m sitting, leaned against him. “Don’t be mean,” I say.

“Come on. You were thinking it,” he says, and we both laugh. 

After we finish eating, my eyelids grow heavy and I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder. I don’t fall very deep, the sound of the TV still registers, but my body goes limp as my muscles relax, and I let my guard down. 

I wake up a while later lying down, head on the cushion instead of on my best friend. I hear low voices near the door, and when I concentrate I realize it’s Alex and Jackson talking. 

“How is she?” Jackson asks. 

“Okay, I think,” Alex answers. “I’ve been wanting to apologize to her ever since it happened. I did, but she didn’t really wanna hear it.” 

“What do you have to be sorry for?” 

“I don’t know,” Alex says. “Not being there, I guess. Not murdering Owen fucking rat bastard piece of shit scum ass carrot motherfucker Hunt yet.” 

I fight a smile. Even in the darkest circumstances, Alex can still make me laugh. 

Jackson doesn’t crack, though. “I feel the same,” he says. “But Alex, thank you. For being with her today.” 

“No prob,” Alex says. “She’s been my best friend forever. I’d give my left nut to know she’s alright.” 

“Okay,” Jackson says, sounding unsure. “Well, thank you again.” 

“Yeah.” 

Footsteps come closer, then I feel a hand on the dip of my side. 

“Princess,” Jackson says, voice soft as silk. “I’m here. It’s time to wake up.” 

I blink my eyes open to rest on his face close to mine. His gaze is gentle, skin flushed from the cold. 

“Hi,” I say, voice raspy.

“Hi,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “Let’s go home.” 


	14. Chapter 14

**JACKSON**

Since my mother passed away, I haven’t been one for holidays - Christmas, specifically. 

It was her favorite. She’d decorate our home in Boston with beautiful wreaths, garland, and lights. The whole place would be lit up with warm hues and holidays smells wafting from each room, due to candles or cooking. It was the epitome of home, and I figured I could never measure up. So, I didn’t try.

But April loves Christmas, and today is Christmas Eve. She spent dinner telling me how, since they’ve lived there, it’s been her job to decorate the townhouse. Their decorations aren’t immaculate, but it’s a process she’s always enjoyed. I asked if she wanted to go there and do it, but she declined politely and continued on eating. 

After we clear the table, I walk to the door and slip into my winter coat. 

“Come on, get your shoes,” I say, eyes on her where she stands by the counter. 

“Why?” she asks, bemused. “What are we doing?"

“You’ll see,” I say. “Just put your stuff on.” 

She flashes me a tiny smirk and does as I say. She bundles herself up in that thick parka and takes my arm, following my lead to the parking garage. 

When we end up in the parking lot of Home Depot, she looks at me with a confused expression on her face. 

“Housewares?” she asks. “Are you enlisting me to do repairs for you, Dr. Avery?” 

I snort and say, “Not quite,” then take her inside. 

Through the doors sits an extravagant Christmas display, full of decorations, lights and everything in between. Pre-cut trees line the wall, and when I look to April’s face, she’s as bright as what lies before us.

“Christmas stuff?” she says, eyes shining. 

“Pick out whatever you want,” I say. 

“Jackson,” she says, giving me a look. “You don’t have to do this. Just ‘cause I said…” 

“No,” I say, nodding her along. “I want to. I want to experience Christmas again. I haven’t had a good one in years, and this will be different.” 

She takes a few slow steps forward, marveling as she looks around like a child in a candy store.

“Anything you want,” I continue.

“Anything?” she asks, hands clasped at her chest. 

“Anything,” I say, chuckling. “I’ll get a cart.” 

By the time we leave that store, there’s a Christmas tree tied to the roof of the BMW with a bungee cord, and both the trunk and backseat are overflowing with boxes and bags. I’ve never been surrounded by so many mirror balls, jingly trinkets, or feathery tinsel, but it’s all worth it for the giant smile on April’s face. 

“Thank you, baby,” she says, hands bunched into excited fists. 

I smile in return, then kiss her cheek at a stoplight. She leans into me and turns to kiss my lips, holding my jaw in place while she does. 

After we get home and get everything inside, April turns on Christmas music, changes into pajamas, and immediately gets to work. 

“How about you string the lights on the tree,” she says, running her hands down my chest. “And I’ll start on the rest of the house. When it’s time for ornaments, let me know.” 

“So, you’re making me do the boring part,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

She scrunches her nose in the adorable way I love. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re boring, baby,” she says.

When she turns around, I playfully smack her ass and she squeals with delight. I get the tree in place, then watch her unwrap everything while I unbox and untangle the copious amount of white lights. 

“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” April asks, a bit later as she stands on a stepstool. She’s in the entryway, hanging a sprig of mistletoe that will definitely get overused. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. 

“You definitely like classics more than new-age ones,” she says, throwing the words over her shoulder. “No Justin Bieber or Pentatonix for you.” 

“Oh, definitely not,” I say, chuckling. “You know me well.” 

“So, what one’s your favorite?” she presses. 

I sigh, plugging one strand of lights into another. “I suppose I’m partial to ‘Silent Night,’” I say.

“I love that one, too,” she replies. 

“It was my mom’s favorite,” I say, fondly remembering the lilt of her voice as she sung it. 

I can’t help but smile and look down at my hands, missing the way hers felt wrapped around my child-sized fingers. She was my savior back then. The Christmases we spent together just she and I were the best I ever experienced. She made sure I never wanted for anything, and I always knew how loved I was. I never had to wonder.

When I look up, April’s eyes are still on me. Focused with heavy concentration, but soft and gentle at the same time. 

“You miss her,” she says, coming down from the stool. 

“Of course,” I say, getting back to work on the lights. “But it’s silly to wallow in the past. She’s been gone for a long time.” 

“But you’re still allowed to miss her,” she says, then scoffs. “You wanna know something stupid and crazy?” 

I prompt her with my eyes. 

She scoffs again, this time louder. 

“I still miss my family sometimes. Like right now. Even though we didn’t do anything for Christmas except go to church, I miss them around this time of year. I don’t even know what I miss, but it’s the way I feel. So…” 

She shrugs, presses her lips together, and sighs. 

“You missing your mom is not silly or meaningless. You can miss her, Jackson. And you can talk about her. I’d love to hear.” 

I spend a while inside my head, running the pads of my fingers over the points of the little lights. My mom’s smile flashes through my mind, then the sound of her laugh, the way it felt when she wrapped me in one of her huge hugs. She was the best hugger. While safe in her arms, I was protected from the world.

“She used to sing ‘Silent Night’ to me,” I say, grinning slightly. “Then she taught me the words, and I’d sing with her. It was just a small thing we’d do, sitting by the tree. I don’t know why I liked it so much. But it’s a very clear memory.” 

“That sounds beautiful,” April says, voice laden with emotion. “She sounds lovely.” 

“She was,” I say, nodding firmly. “She was great.” 

“I wish I could’ve met her,” she says.

“Me, too,” I say, truthfully. “She would’ve loved you.”

April smiles, one corner of her lips pulling up. “I’m sure I would’ve loved her, too,” she says. “If she created someone as wonderful as you.” 

I clear my throat, the feelings suddenly becoming too much. I can’t let myself experience that weight without getting significantly buried in the past, and I don’t want that to happen right now. 

“All you did was go to church on Christmas?” I say, changing the subject. “That was it?” 

Sensing the detour, April gets back to work in putting up decorations. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I didn’t know about Santa Claus until I was a teenager. I found out at youth group, I think. And after that, we weren’t allowed back for a month.” Her eyebrows furrow. “But yeah. We’d just go to church all day. The first present I ever got was from Addison and Amelia, freshman year. It was a nice brush, you know, ‘cause of my long hair. It was a brush, and I cried.” She snickers, shakes her head. “They thought I was crazy.” 

“Do you still have it?” I ask. 

She smiles. “Of course,” she says. “I use it every day.” 

I finish putting the lights on the tree, and April comes over to help decorate it with ornaments once she’s satisfied with the house’s attire. As she reaches to hang one close to the top, I wind my arms around her small waist and tuck my face into her neck.

“I’m going to make sure this is your best Christmas yet,” I say, kissing her warm skin.

She bends her elbow and holds the side of my head, coming down from her tiptoes. I pull her closer, rest my forehead atop her shoulder, and breathe in her scent mixed with the snap of pine.

“I love you,” I say, closing my eyes and meaning it deeply. 

She spins around and holds the small of my back, gazing up at me through her eyelashes. She nudges my nose with hers and smiles against my lips, standing on tiptoe again while kissing me full on the mouth. 

“I love you more,” she whispers. 

I shake my head and kiss the corner of her mouth, relishing the way she leans against me. 

“If you knew how much I love you, you wouldn’t say that,” I murmur.

“I could say the same,” she responds, running her fingers through the hair on the back of my head. 

Later that night, we go to bed with the light from the mini Christmas tree in the bedroom shining on us. The bulbs are multicolored, which turns the white comforter rainbow as April burrows under it. She falls asleep quickly - cheek pressed against my chest, lips slack with one hand spread out over my abdomen. 

I wait for her to fall deeper and sneak out of bed about an hour later. I pick up her wrist and set it down gently, then get up while trying to move the mattress as little as I can.

She’s never had a proper Christmas morning where she wakes up with dozens of gifts waiting, so I want to make sure that happens. I grab all of the gifts I bought her - already perfectly wrapped - from the hall closet, behind a couple toolboxes that she couldn’t reach if she tried. I arrange them perfectly under the tree, taking a step back to observe the work once I’m done. 

I’m unable to contain my grin. She won’t know what to do with herself when she sees this in the morning. 

I slip back into bed and she stirs. I freeze, waiting as she gets comfortable again, and adjust while she settles against me. In no time at all, she wraps one arm completely around my torso, throws a leg over mine, and falls back to sleep. 

This time, I join her.

…

As usual, I’m awake first. Snow is falling outside and April is breathing deeply beside me - well, more on top of me than anything. There’s a perfectly good - not to mention, large - bed for her, yet she chooses to rest on my body instead. 

Not that I’m complaining. 

I run my fingers down her back under the fabric of her shirt, and she nestles closer, rubbing her cheek against my collarbone. I smile to myself and reach lower to cup her ass, patting it gently to wake her up. 

“It’s Christmas, baby,” I murmur, voice in her hair. 

“Christmas,” she says back, voice bleary and muffled. 

“I heard there are presents for you.” 

“Presents for me?” she asks, eyes still unopened. 

“Mm-hmm,” I say, kissing her head. “So, we better get up.”

“But you’re so cozy,” she says, with a breathy giggle. 

“I know,” I say. “So are you. But if you want your presents…” 

She finally lifts her head and looks at me, and I can’t help but smile. Her mossy green eyes are half-lidded and cloudy with sleep, there’s a patch of dried spit on her cheek, and her hair is a rat’s nest, but to me she’s the cutest human to ever grace this earth. 

“There you are,” I say, and thumb the crust off her face.

“Oops,” she says, and finishes wiping it with the back of her hand. 

We walk into the living room a few moments later, with April still rubbing her eyes behind me. I know she’s seen the tree when I hear a gasp and she stops in her tracks by the kitchen counter. 

“Jackson Avery,” she says, flabbergasted. 

“April Kepner,” I echo, amused. 

“No, no, no,” she says, shuffling to the tree in her slippers. “What is all this? What did you do?” 

I follow at a much slower pace. She stands in front of all the presents, in awe, hands near her face. 

“You’ve had 20 awful Christmases,” I say, winding an arm around her waist. “So, I got you 20 gifts to make up for those, and one more for this year.” 

She turns to me, stunned. “Jackson…” she begins. 

“And don’t say I didn’t have to,” I say. “Because I know that. But I wanted to, and doing it made me happier than I can say.” 

“I just… I....” she stammers. “I only got you two things. That’s all.” 

“There’s no competition,” I say. “No comparison. I did this because I love you, not because I wanted to prove anything.” 

Her shocked expression turns gleeful with an energetic smile. She cups my jaw and kisses me, elated, before breaking away to laugh. 

“I can’t believe you,” she says. 

“And I insist,” I say. “That you go first.” 

We sit down and she starts opening. I didn’t have much time to go shopping, so I did most of it online after she fell asleep and utilized the express shipping option. 

The gifts range from practical things, like new boots, to things she’s had her eye on for a while, like an athletic set from LuLuLemon. There are books upon books, of course, and she reads the back of each before moving onto the next. I get her a new backpack because the one she uses for school is falling apart, and expensive, jeweled hair pins, along with many other things. 

“This is all so much,” she says, sliding a barrette into the front of her messy hair. 

“Wait,” I say. “Don’t forget the twenty-first.” 

She laughs breathily. “I don’t know if I can handle any more,” she says, but accepts the small box when I hand it to her. 

She studies it for a moment, confused, and I watch her. When she finally cracks it open, her eyebrows lift and her face lights up with surprise. 

“A key?” she says, holding the box like it’s precious. 

“To this apartment,” I say. “I want it to be your home, too. I want to share this place with you, even when I’m not here. I want it to be a safe place you can come to whenever you want.” 

She carefully removes the key from the box and holds it in her fist, then throws her arms around my neck with such force that we’re both knocked backward onto the carpet. 

“Oh, Jackson, thank you,” she says, then lifts her head to look at me. “I love it. Thank you so much. This really is the best Christmas ever.” 

I tuck a bit of hair behind her ear. “I love you,” I say. “You deserved everything, and more.”

“Not more,” she says, and kisses me on the lips. “But I love you, too.” 

We sit up and she turns the key this way and that, watching the light glint off of it. 

“I have the twenty-second present, too,” I say, which is the truth. “But I’m not sure it can wait until next Christmas.” 

She quirks an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“What do you mean?” she asks. “What is it?"

“A secret,” I say. 

The good kind this time. 

We spend a bit more time looking over her gifts, then she gasps theatrically while crawling under the tree, presumably to grab what she got for me. 

“I know it’s not much,” she says. “But I tried. So, just open them, and… I hope you like them.” 

There are two gifts, but they’re wrapped together in a square shape. I take my time in paring away the paper, and when I pull it back I see two matching frames. 

One holds a picture of my mother and me directly after my high school graduation. I’m dressed in navy blue robes, a white stole thrown over my shoulders, the square hat lopsided atop my ‘egghead,’ as she used to call it. The smile on my face is warm and bright, and it matches hers. I feel the warmth radiating from this picture, reminiscent of that day. She had been so proud of me. She knew I would go on to do great things. She always had such faith in me. 

The second frame holds a picture of April and me in the snow. It’s a nicely posed selfie from the day we went to Band of Bohemia, and I have her winter hat on. I can tell I was the one to take this picture, because she’s looking up at me while laughing - a broad smile on her face, eyes twinkling. She has one hand on the hat as she tries to adjust it, presumably the reason why she’s laughing, and I’m suppressing a wider grin. This photo was snapped on accident, but it captures the moment perfectly. 

“Oh,” I say, glancing between the two images. “April, these are perfect.” 

“Yeah?” she says, sitting up on her knees. “I didn’t know. I still don’t think it’s enough. You got me so much, and…” 

“It’s enough,” I say, tracing the frames with my pointer finger. “They’re enough.” 

She grins and kisses me, lingering with her pillow-soft lips pressed against mine. 

“You can bring this one to work,” she says, touching the picture of my mother and me gently. “And leave this one at home. Put it right on your nightstand, where you’ll always see it.” 

“If I turn to the left, I’ll see a picture of you,” I say. “And if I turn to the right, I’ll see the real thing.” 

“Exactly,” she says, with a giggle. “I love you.” 

“I love you, princess.”

…

Months pass. Winter thaws and turns to spring, and before we know it, it’s the middle of the next quarter and March is here. 

I’m teaching a handful of classes, but only one sticks out - and that’s Topics in the Study of Sexuality. And because she laid out her schedule for the whole year back in September and this class applied to her major, April is my student yet again. 

The content of the course has been interesting, to say the least. April makes things difficult by sitting in the front row and holding steady eye contact during the entire three hours I teach. In fact, it’s nearly debilitating. In the best way. 

She’s pretty much moved in to the apartment, which I gladly accept. She has her own drawers, her own section in the medicine cabinet, and her own space in the closet. We’ve spent every night together for months on end. At this point, I don’t know how I’d go about sleeping without her tiny, warm body next to mine. 

But still, while on campus, we have to be covert. We can’t walk to my car together and ride home that way. Instead, she goes to a nearby cafe and I pick her up there. 

It’s an everyday routine, and it’s exactly where I am now. I pull up in front of Plein Air and find her waiting in front, like always. Today, she’s wearing a skirt that falls to mid-thigh with patterned tights and a loose blue cardigan.

She waves when she sees the car, then scurries over in her ballet flats. 

“I think it’s gonna start raining soon,” she says, climbing in. 

Before getting settled, she cranes her neck to give me a breathless kiss on the cheek.

“Hey,” she says. “Good day?”

“Yeah,” I say, pressing on the gas pedal. “It was fine. What about yours?” 

She shrugs. “It was fine, at first. But then I ran into Addison and Amelia in the library, which totally caught me off-guard. It put me in a weird mood for the rest of the day.”

I raise my eyebrows, eyes still on the road. “How long’s it been since you’ve talked to them?” 

She sighs, pressed against the seat. “Months,” she says. “I’ve seen them in passing a few times since... you know. But I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with them since before Christmas. Before that party.” 

She’s been avoiding her girlfriends for months. With Alex, that isn’t the case. She’ll spend time with him at the townhouse when she’s sure the other two won’t be home. She hasn’t opened up completely on the subject of why she’s chosen to do this, and I think it’s partly because she’s not sure herself. 

“They started asking me questions like crazy. Like, right in the middle of the study section. I was just trying to check out a book, and they kept hounding me. They wanted me to get coffee with them, but I said I had someplace to be.” She shakes her head roughly. “They were just spewing all this information.” 

“Like what?” I ask. 

“Stuff about him,” she says, eyes darting over.

I bristle instantly. The subject of her assault is one she knows she can always bring up, but she doesn’t talk about it much. She still can’t remember the details of what happened, so I think she’s been trying to erase it entirely. 

“What about him?” I ask, hands tightening on the wheel. 

She looks out the window so the back of her red-haired head faces me. 

“They’ve heard stuff,” she says. “About how the case might go to trial. I don’t know, I haven’t heard anything. Because I didn’t want to. They don’t know what they’re talking about, and they think they do. I hate that.” 

“Do they even know what happened?” I ask, carefully. 

She crosses her arms, still faced the other way. “People started talking. You know, when it got out he might not come back to school.” 

“They better do more than expel him,” I say, getting angry. “If I have to testify-” 

“Stop,” she says. “Don’t get mad. I don’t… please, don’t raise your voice. I don’t want you to do anything irrational that will jeopardize your career. Not over this asshole.” 

I take a deep breath in attempts to calm myself. She doesn’t need a loose cannon right now, she needs an anchor. 

“I just didn’t like seeing them,” she says, crossing her arms. “It made me go back to that night.” 

“Have you remembered anything?” I ask. 

“No,” she answers. “I told you, I don’t want to.” 

I’m silent after that, contemplating her words and wondering if I should say the ones I so desperately want to. I don’t want her to be set off by the suggestion, but there won’t be a better time than now to bring it up again. 

“Princess,” I say, softly. “During my next session, I can get a reference from Naima so we can find you someone to talk to. I think it would really help.” 

“No,” she says, adamantly. 

I let a soft gust of air from my nose. “Baby-” 

“No,” she says again. 

When she turns, I expect her expression to be harsh and stony. But instead, it’s vulnerable, exposed, and near-desperate. 

“I don’t want to,” she says. “I can’t explain why I don’t. I just don’t. I want to get back to myself on my own. I don’t need a therapist. I just need me and you, and that’s it. Okay?” 

I don’t agree, but I’m not sure how to knock down that ideology. I used to hold those beliefs, too, before I started seeing Naima. The therapist I had before her wasn’t a good fit, which made me second-guess therapy in general. But now that I talk to Naima every week, I’ve made leaps and bounds of progress. I don’t know where I’d be without her guidance and advice. 

But with April, I don’t want a fight. It takes people different amounts of time to take steps in their recovery. Who am I to tell her how fast to go? 

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’m sorry. It was just a suggestion.” 

“I know,” she says, facing the window once more. 

Without looking, she rests the side of her head against it and extends one arm, hand outstretched, in search of mine. I take one hand off the wheel and interlace our fingers, squeezing hers for reassurance. She doesn’t need words to know I’ll support her through anything. 

...

Two weeks pass, and now it’s nearly the month of April.

April has gotten over her fear of being alone. It’s still not her favorite thing in the world, but she has no qualms over coming to the apartment first and being by herself until I get off. 

That’s how tonight ends up. I walk in the door to find music playing and the lights on, but I don’t see her at first. 

“I’m home,” I say, hanging up my spring jacket. 

“Baby,” she says, excitedly. “Finally.” 

“Where are you?” 

She peers at me from where she’s sitting on the floor. “Here,” she says. “I’m doing homework for a  _ super  _ hard class I’m taking.” 

“Oh, yeah?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “What one?” 

“Topics in the Study of Sexuality,” she says, giggling. “But the silver lining is that my professor’s really sexy.” 

I roll my eyes playfully and take my shoes off, coming around to sit on the couch above her. 

“I think I’ve heard of him,” I say. 

She looks up through her eyelashes, and I see that she’s outlining a research paper on a book she chose. I left the selection open-ended, and she picked one of the most interesting:  _ Orgasmology _ by Annamarie Jagose. 

“You wanna help?” she asks, setting her pencil down. 

“You know I can’t do that,” I say, winking.

She giggles darkly, pushing herself up to rest on her knees. She caps her hands over mine, then slides them up my thighs. I can’t help the way my body buzzes in reaction. 

“You know what I love?” she asks, hands dangerously close to my crotch. 

She traces the creases of my dress pants and the blood rushes to the area, eager and insistent. We haven’t slept together in months, not since the first time. She hasn’t expressed the desire to, and I would never push. 

“Hmm?” I prompt.

She bites her lower lip. “None of your other students get hands-on lessons from you,” she says, then pulls my hand to rest on the back of her head.

She sandwiches herself between my knees, torso flush against the couch. 

“No one knows we’re fucking,” she says, lasciviously. 

My eyes widen as I raise my eyebrows. “April,” I say, as she goes for the button of my pants. “Are you sure about this?”

From between my legs, she lifts her eyes to mine. “It’s been a long time,” she says. “And I want my body back.”

She pulls herself onto my lap to straddle my hips, and my hands find her waist instantly. I close my eyes to center myself and rub her hip bones with my thumbs, reveling in the way she grinds subtly on top of me. 

“Take my body back,” she breathes, dropping her lips to my neck. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and I’m ready. I wanna feel physically loved again, baby, and I want you to make me feel good. I wanna remember how… how good it can feel.” 

I can barely think straight. With the way her body moves and the sultry way her voice sounds, all the blood in my system has flooded to my groin with plans of staying there. 

“Alright,” I say, tightening my arms around her waist so I can lift her. “Let’s go, then.” 

I shut the door to my room and set her down on the bed. She pulls her dress off over her head - a deep green one with flowing material and long sleeves, and is left in her bra and tights, which is one of my favorite ways to see her.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, I want her naked. 

I know we’ll get there, though. There’s no rush, no time limit, no hurry. We’ll get our chance with each other. 

I strip down to my underwear and join her atop the comforter, and she scoots back to give us more room. I overlap her body and rest one leg comfortably between hers, with plans of kissing every inch of open skin. 

I start with her chest, the plane of her sternum, the freckle I love. I take her bra straps in my teeth and pull them down her arms, then she does a little shimmy to undo the clasp around her back. 

When her chest is bare, I take full advantage. I close my eyes with her nipple in my mouth, flattening my tongue over the hardened bud, and suck hard. She clenches my leg between her thighs and moans salaciously, fingernails digging into my scalp. 

Like we used to, I take her wrists and pin them down on either side of her head in the heat of the moment. She grunts at first, which is a sound I’m accustomed to, then fights my grip. I remove my hands as soon as she struggles, and pull back, spooked. 

“Sorry,” she says, massaging where my touch had been. “I just don’t… I used to like… I thought I would. But I don’t think you can pin me down anymore. It… it reminds me…” 

“I won’t,” I say, quickly. “I promise, I won’t do that.” 

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Okay.” 

We spend a moment just looking at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. The room is silent - our bated breath the only sound.

“Professor,” she says, finally. “Kiss me.”

Her words break the strained moment, and I resume where I’d left off. With my mouth on her clavicle, I work on getting the tights down her legs, which ends up being a harder task than I’d expected. She smiles, tips her head back, and helps so we’re both left in our underwear.

I kiss her body and pause on my favorite parts. I suck on the angle of her ribs, lick a circle around her bellybutton, and glide through the peach fuzz above the waist of her underwear with my thumb. 

I skip the area between her legs entirely, though there’s a wet spot clearly visible through the fabric of her teal underwear. Instead, I gently bite her thighs and bend her legs, finding sweet portions of her calves, the bend of her knees, and the sharp bones of her ankles. 

I hold her leg so the foot presses against my chest, and her eyes burn into me. I kiss the inner arch and she throws her arms above her head, flattening her breasts against her chest as she stretches. She makes a delicious little sound when she opens her eyes to find my lips and tongue in the same place. 

“Do you have a thing for feet, Dr. Avery?” she asks, tone lilting. 

“Yours,” I answer, moving my lips higher, around to her Achilles tendon. “I have a thing for everything of yours.”

She lets her knees fall open, and the damp circle on her underwear has grown. Throwing her leg over my shoulder, I bend in half and tease the spot with my tongue, forcing my lips together to suck on the saturated cotton. 

April moans, lifting her hips to meet my face. I open my mouth wider, tongue flat and wide against her heat, and nudge my nose against the wetness. By now, her underwear are practically dripping. 

“Jackson…” she sighs, reaching for my shoulder to sink in her nails in. “I need your mouth on me. Please, please, eat me out. I need you so bad.” 

“Yes, princess,” I say, smirking. 

She gasps slightly and watches me pull the underwear down her creamy thighs, exposing her unshaved, glistening curls. My dick twitches in the confines of my shorts as I unfold her, and I lick my lips in preparation for what I’m about to do. 

I close my eyes in pure ecstasy when my mouth meets her core, and delve my tongue inside her right away. Her inner muscles flutter and she whimpers - loud and long - as her back arches away from the mattress. 

I kiss her outer lips and spread them to kiss the ones inside, paying due attention to the sensitive outside of her body before finding my way in. She tastes just how I remember, and she’s so turned on that her wetness slips from her body and drips onto my tongue, and I lick up every last drop. 

“Oh, god,” she moans, planting her feet on either side of my shoulders, knees bent. “God, Jackson, god… I’m so wet…” 

“I know, princess,” I say, pausing to kiss her stomach. 

She breathes deeply, heavily, and slips one hand down her torso to situate between her thighs. She drags her fingers through the curls, through her arousal, and lifts them up covered in the shiny fluid. 

With a move I don’t expect, she dips those fingers inside my mouth. The taste isn’t a surprise, of course, but the act of dominance is. I’m usually the one calling the shots, and this was a clear power move.

I’m not complaining. 

April wants to own her body again, reclaim it in a sense. She wants to take control, and I know how deep that feeling roots itself. I’m glad to let her regain this agency, and I’ll do anything to help her get there. 

I suck on her fingers hard, all the way to the second knuckle. Her neck goes limp as I do, head falling to the pillow, that beautiful throat pale and exposed.

I wrap my tongue around her two digits and close my eyes, grazing my teeth over the skin. She pulls them out slowly, then runs the pads over my row of bottom teeth. 

“You’re so sexy,” she says. “Do you taste me?”

I disappear between her thighs again and take a few long swipes with my tongue. 

“Mm-hmm,” I say. 

She lifts her hips and widens her thighs further. “What do I taste like?” she says. “Tell me.” 

Her eyes flash, and I return the gesture. I part her with two fingers and dip my tongue in as far as it will go, collecting the fluid that drains from her because of it. 

“You taste like the looks you give me in class,” I say, turning to kiss her thigh. “Like the bra you wore the first time I ate you out. Like your hair feels wrapped up in my fist.” 

Swiftly, I push two fingers inside her - deep. Her mouth falls open and she shudders, moaning when I pull them out as slow as I can. 

I lift them to her face and drag the wetness across her lower lip. 

“You taste like that,” I say, then dip them inside her mouth. 

While keeping steady eye contact, she sucks on my fingers just like I’d sucked on hers. When I slide them out, she runs her tongue over her lip and collects what I left, then lets her eyelashes flutter shut. 

“I’m ready,” she says, snapping her knees together and placing both feet on my torso. “I want you to fuck me, professor.”

My body lights up in response to her words. I take her ankles in my hands and lift her legs down, then grab her hips tight before flipping her onto her hands and knees. 

“Are you okay with this?” I say, draping my body over hers to speak into her ear. 

She nods fervently. “Yeah,” she says. “I just… I wanna feel you.” 

“You’re completely sure?” I ask, stripping off my underwear and putting on a condom. 

“Jackson,” she says, voice firmer. “I want you to bend me over and fuck me. That’s what I want. Could I be any clearer?” 

I chuckle darkly, running my teeth over my lip while I hold her shoulder in one hand, dick in the other. I tap it against her ass a couple times as she arches her back, then slip inside her easily due to how wet she is. 

“Fuck, Jesus,” I grunt, hands finding purchase on the tight creases of her hips. “Mmm, fuck…” 

“Go faster,” she says, which is a surprise. 

I’m acutely aware this is only her second time, and the first time was a while ago. I hadn’t expected her to want me to go full-throttle, and I was hesitant to go there. 

“Faster, you’re sure?” I ask. 

“Jackson!” she shrills. “I want it fast, and I want it hard. I’m telling you what I want, and I’ll tell you if I want you to stop. And I know you’ll listen. But you need to listen when I say that I want you to fuck me. Hard.” 

I take her words to heart. 

I close my eyes and pound her the way I wanted to the first time, the way she wants me to now. Her body is amazing, responding in all the right ways, and I’ve never felt so good as I do buried inside her. 

The sounds she makes are to die for. She reaches to grab my hand, directing it to her hair so I’ll pull it. Once I yank it back so her neck is taut, she moans so loud I feel it through her skin. 

“You like that, princess?” I say, and she shoves her hips back against me in a wordless reply. 

I keep going, slamming into her and relishing the sound of skin against skin. My stamina, as always, is impressive - but so is hers. As I pump my hips, her arms don’t tremble and her body doesn’t falter. In fact, if anything, she gains energy as we go. 

I lose track of time while I’m inside her. My mind goes deliciously blank and I think about April only - this is the best I’ve felt in a while. 

“Jackson,” she says, calling me out of my reverie. “Make me come. I wanna come.” 

I smile to myself and bend to kiss the small of her back, opening my mouth to lick the knobs of her spine. “That can be done,” I say. “But I want my mouth on you when it happens.” 

I flip her around and yank her thighs apart, pulling her clit into my mouth immediately. She shrieks in response, closing my head in her legs, and I’m not gentle. I suck on the nerves hard, and within moments she comes unwound and everything she built up spills onto my face, dripping from her core and my chin. 

“Fuck…” she pants. “Oh, fuck…” 

I hitch her legs over my hips, ready to ride out my orgasm while inside her. I don’t have to wait long, either. After a few powerful thrusts, I empty my load in her body and kiss her skin all over while it happens - collecting sweat and other fluid as I go. 

“Jackson,” she breathes, grappling for me once I tie the condom off. “Oh, Jackson. Come here, come here. I want you.” 

“I’m right here,” I say, gathering her body in my outstretched arms. 

She’s quiet for a moment, and in that moment I get worried about what her reaction will be. I wonder if she regrets it - if we reconnected too soon, if we should’ve waited until she warmed up to the idea of therapy.

My fears grow stronger when she lifts her face to mine, and I see she’s crying. 

“Baby girl,” I say, wiping her tears with my thumb. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Was this a-” 

“No,” she says, then tucks her face into my neck. She wraps her arms tight around me, along with her strong little legs. “I’m happy. These are happy tears.” 

I hold the back of her hair and kiss her soundly on the forehead. “I love you,” I tell her, firm and sure. “You know that, right? I love you.”

“I know,” she says, eyes gleaming while she looks up. “And I love you.” 


	15. Chapter 15

**APRIL**

The day after my birthday, I’m sitting on the kitchen counter with a tub of ice cream in my lap, eating out of it while Jackson cooks dinner.

“If you keep eating that, you’ll lose your appetite,” he says, adjusting asparagus in a frying pan on the stove.

I slip the spoon past my lips, leaving a huge chunk of mint chocolate chip ice cream in my mouth.

“You cooked for me last night,” I say, words jumbled. “Special birthday dinner. No one said you had to do it again tonight.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So, you’re saying you’d rather gorge on cheap ice cream than the amazing chicken and asparagus I’m making?”

I smirk, licking my lips. “Yes,” I tease, then gather another spoonful. “Here. Bite.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t do sweets, but thank you.”

“Come on,” I say, giggling. “Try. When’s the last time you had something sweet?”

He tries to stay serious, but it’s not easy. I see a smile playing at the corners of his eyes.

“I have something sweet every night,” he says. “Twice, if she’ll let me.”

I kick him as he passes to get something from the cabinet. “Shut up,” I say. “I don’t know how it’s possible for someone not to like sweets, anyway.”

“Just because you’re obsessed…”

“I am not obsessed,” I say, pointing the spoon at him. “I appreciate.”

“Uh-huh.”

I snort. “Whatever, come here. You’re gonna try it.”

He rolls his eyes lightly and checks the oven, but eventually makes his way to stand between my parted knees. He places his hands at the tops of my thighs, patting my legs while looking up at my face.

“Here,” I say, getting a decent-sized spoonful. “Your world is about to be changed.”

I dip the spoon into his mouth and watch his reaction as I pull it out. He chews for a moment, then tips his head from side to side while getting used to the taste.

“And?” I say, once he swallows.

“It’s fine,” he answers.

I scoff. “Just _fine_?”

He chuckles softly and winds his arms around my waist, scooting me forward on the counter. “I can live without it,” he says, then kisses my neck. “But you, on the other hand… no.”

I throw my arms over his shoulders, smiling towards the ceiling. “You can’t live without me?”

“Nope,” he says.

“Even though I’m 22 and old?” I say, and he pulls back to look at me.

“Stop that,” he says, rubbing my thighs.

“I’m kidding,” I say, then touch the tip of his nose with mine. He kisses me, and I ask, “Because I turned 22, does that mean I get the 22nd Christmas present now?”

He smirks and walks away, back to cooking dinner. “Is that still on your mind?”

“I’m just curious,” I say, hopping down to follow him. While he stands at the stove, I wrap my arms around his middle from behind and squish my cheek between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sticking by my original answer,” he says. “Which is no. Not yet.”

“Hmph,” I pout. “You’re no fun.”

“Many people would agree with you.”

I roll my eyes and stay close while he cooks, then sit at the table across from him while we eat. Jackson is an amazing chef, so of course dinner tastes fantastic. My appetite wasn’t ruined by my pre-dinner ice cream, either.

After we work together cleaning up the dishes, I go out to the living room.

“Do you want to turn on a show?” I ask. “I think we’re almost at the season finale of _The Handmaid’s Tale_.”

“Maybe in a little while,” he says, gathering his school briefcase from the bench in the entryway. “I have a big group of papers to grade. After.”

I sigh, a bit disappointed, and lie on the couch while he stays at the table a few feet away.

“Do you want to sit with me and do homework?” he asks.

“Don’t have any,” I say. “Finished it all.”

“Oh, well. Okay,” he says, and grows silent again.

I pull out my phone, check my notifications, and try to find some meaningless way to bide the time. I scroll through my messages and delete old ones from the bottom up, and when I get to mine and Alex’s thread, I decide to call him.

“Hey, A. What’s up? You okay?” he answers.

I roll my eyes playfully and cross one leg over the other. “Just ‘cause I’m calling you doesn’t mean I’m in trouble,” I say. “I just wanna talk. I’m bored.”

“What, your boy-toy isn’t good enough entertainment?”

“Shut up,” I say. “He’s grading papers.”

“Ooh, so adult.”

“Whatever,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Crocheting,” he says. “Making you an afghan.”

“For real?”

“No!” he laughs. “I’m watching TV.”

“What’s on?”

“Uh, some shit. I don’t know. It was on when I sat down, and I just left it. I was about to change it when your needy ass called. _America’s Next Top Model_ , or something.”

“Shut up, you were totally watching it,” I say. “Don’t pretend like you don’t love that show.”

“Yeah fucking right,” he says.

“You like the season with the male models,” I say, pitch rising. “They totally get you all hot and bothered.”

“Dude, shut the fuck up or I’m hanging up on your ass.”

I keep laughing for a moment longer before quieting down. “Fine,” I say, then sigh. “Hey. How’s the whole thing with Izzie going?”

Alex and Izzie had started dating early in the year. I was going through my own problems - I technically still am, but I’m getting better - which means I didn’t have the headspace to devote to someone else’s relationship.

“Sorry I haven’t been keeping up,” I say. “I’m a shitty friend.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “We… I don’t know. Things were going okay, but then they weren’t. Then she just up and transferred schools. She barely said bye to me.”

“Wait,” I say, sitting up halfway - alert. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“So, she’s just… gone?”

“Pretty much.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I say. “I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t know… you could’ve told me.”

“Nah,” he says. “You’re going through your own shit.”

“Yeah, but I still want to be here for you,” I say. “Do you want me to kick her ass?”

“You gonna go to Washington, where she transferred?” he quips.

“What’s in Washington?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “A fresh start, I guess. I don’t know.”

“April,” I hear, and see Jackson looking at me over his glasses from the table.

“Hold on, Alex,” I say, and press the phone to my chest. “What’s up, babe?”

He purses his lips and gives me a look. “Do you want me to drive you to the townhouse? I wouldn’t mind. I’m sorry, princess, but I’m trying to concentrate and… you’re a little distracting.”

“Oh,” I say. “Hold on.” I direct my attention back to the phone. “Hey, Alex. Are Addie and Amelia there?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” I say, then turn to Jackson. “No, thanks. But I can talk in another room if I’m bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me, per se,” he says. “I just need to focus.”

“No problem,” I say, then walk past the table and kiss his head on the way to our room.

“The professor’s panties in a knot?” Alex asks.

“Stop being mean to him,” I say.

“Whatever,” he replies.

We talk for thirty minutes or so, then hang up in plans of seeing each other later this week. I toss the phone on the bed and head back out to the main area, headphones and laptop in tow so I can do my own thing while simply enjoying Jackson’s presence.

“How was Alex?” he asks, as I walk past.

“Good,” I say. “Except Izzie broke it off with him in a super weird way. She just up and left.” I shake my head. “He deserves better than that.”

Jackson makes a contemplative noise, puzzled at her behavior in the same way I am.

“Were Addison and Amelia home?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, pausing by the table as we chat.

“So, you decided not to go over.”

“Uh-huh…” I say, unsure of what he’s getting at.

“When are you going to let them back in, April?” he asks.

I frown, bite my lip, and close off. “I don’t know,” I say. “Why do you care?”

He sighs and takes his glasses off to massage his temples. He’s quiet for a moment until his glasses come back on, then he looks at me again.

“Alex contacted me,” he says.

“He wh-”

“He wanted to know how you’re really doing, none of the glossed-over stuff you give him. And he said that Addison and Amelia don’t know why you ‘ghosted’ them, whatever that means.”

The creases on my forehead deepen. “Wait,” I say. “You talked to Alex?”

“Yes,” Jackson says. “He called me.”

“When?” I spit. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

Jackson clears his throat, nudges his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and folds his hands on the table. “It was something between the two of us,” he says. “I wasn’t purposefully keeping it from you. He wanted an update, and-”

“You gave him one, because apparently privacy isn’t a thing now,” I say.

His eyes narrow. “No, wrong,” he says. “I barely told him a thing. I said that’s something he should take up with you. Why would you assume that I’d air out your issues with someone I don’t know?”

His words fly over my head, unmeaning. “It’s none of your business about Addison and Amelia,” I say, changing the subject.

“I never said it was,” he says. “But you’re my girlfriend, and I care about you. They’re your friends, I know you love them, and I want what’s best for you.”

“You don’t have to make it happen,” I say. “I’m capable of controlling my own life.”

“I’ve never thought otherwise.”

“I think you do!” I retort, then shake my head. “I thought we were done with secrets.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.

“You were talking to Alex behind my back,” I say. “You kept it from me, so obviously there must be something to keep.”

“I just didn’t find it terribly important,” he says. “I’m sorry for keeping it from you. If he calls again, I’ll make sure to tell you.”

“That isn’t good enough!” I argue. “You both want to fix me. I can fix myself, you know! I don’t need you suggesting therapy every other week. And even when you’re not suggesting it, I know you’re thinking it. And I hate it when he looks at me with that ‘poor April’ look in his eyes, because he has it on, like, all the time now. I’m fine! I’m doing fine! I don’t want you two talking about me without my knowing, like I’m some little woman who needs to be looked after.”

“I understand,” Jackson says. “I respect that. I never meant for it to come off that way.”

I bunch my fists and let out a sound of rage. “Why are you just sitting there?” I bellow. “Why won’t you fight back?”

“You’re angry,” he says. “And I can see why. There’s no reason for me to get angry, too.”

“I’m saying, stick up for yourself. Don’t let me stand here and beat you up!”

“I’m not,” he says. “I said what I needed to say, and you gave your reasons as to why it didn’t sit right with you. I respect those reasons. I still think you should reconnect with your friends, but you’ve made it clear that’s none of my business. I’m trying to mind my own business, and only control what is in my circle of control.”

I clench my jaw and shake my head. I don’t know why I’m still mad; he said all the right things. I don’t know why I want a fight, but I don’t like the imbalance of me shouting and standing, and him sitting and speaking calmly. I have to leave this where it lies.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, and leave my headphones and laptop on the couch.

I expect him to follow, but he doesn’t. I’m not sure whether I want him to or not. I go into the bathroom connected to the master bedroom and get ready for bed - brush my teeth, put on pajamas - then crawl into my side and burrow under the covers angrily.

I’m too wired to fall asleep, too much on my mind, so I’m still pretty wakeful when Jackson finally comes into the room. I listen to his nighttime routine, then feel the mattress shift as he climbs in with me.

I’m frustrated with him. Annoyed, too. Pissed. But I still want his hands on me while I fall asleep. I know that’s the only thing that will help me relax. So, I scoot back and press my back against his front. I reach to take his arm, then sling it over my side. He tucks his face into my neck from behind, nose barely touching my skin, and molds his body against mine.

I fall asleep in seconds flat.

…

In the morning, I’m still miffed. Not as bad as the night before, and I’m mostly upset because I overreacted. My emotions are easily manipulated and hard to rein in. Jackson usually gets the brunt of my blowups, finding it within himself to stay placid and calm, which unnerves me more than anything else.

He said all the right things last night. That annoys me even more. How can he be so perfect, and I’m so… me?

To wake me up, he ghosts his lips over the nape of my neck after swiping my hair away. I open my eyes to slits and stir, arching my back to press my ass against his morning erection.

His lips move to the round of my bare shoulder, descending to my upper arm after that. I grunt softly, eyebrows furrowing, but ultimately let him flip me onto my back and rest my arm over my head.

Surprising me, his mouth finds my armpit. It’s shaven, but probably doesn’t smell all that great, so I jolt away.

“Stop, baby,” I say, turning onto my side again. “We have to get up.”

“I know…” he says, propping himself up on an elbow to kiss my cheek. “You still mad?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says, kissing my ear. “Want me to take the shower first so you can have a few more minutes to sleep?”

I nod, eyes closed, and curl into myself. He chuckles while standing, then disappears into the bathroom. After he’s done showering, I take my turn and we get ready without speaking, only listening to the radio. The silence isn’t malicious or tense, but I’m still figuring out what’s going on inside my head and he’s giving me the space to do just that.

The car ride to campus is quiet, too. I mess with the radio like always until it lands on something acceptable, and duck as we pull into the parking garage.

“Have a good day,” Jackson says. “I’m teaching all morning and have meetings in the afternoon, but I’ll be home regular time tonight.”

“Okay,” I say, looking to him sullenly. I know I’m behaving like a child, but that doesn’t stop me. “Have a good day, too.”

We meet in the middle for a goodbye kiss.

“I love you,” he reminds me.

“I love you,” I respond, because there’s no way in hell I wouldn’t.

I attend my first class on autopilot, but take notes like I should. It’s the middle of spring quarter, which means midterms are coming up soon. If I don’t pay attention in class, I’ll pay the price. So, even though my mind is elsewhere, I do my best to be a good student.

The 90 minute lecture seems to last forever. Once it’s done, I burst out of the room with plans on taking the long way to the cafeteria, where I’ll get lunch. I walk through the quad, through the alleyway of on-campus housing, then through the administration buildings as a shortcut.

Without headphones, I take in my surroundings as they occur quietly around me. The sound of the drinking fountain whirring, a revolving door spinning, footsteps behind me. Voices accompany the footsteps, and I realize they’re headed towards the Dean’s office.

I trip as I listen harder not because I’m distracted, but because my boot comes untied. I set my bag on the ground and kneel to fix it, standing when it’s tied in a bow again. When I follow the source of the voices with my eyes, I see that headed into the Dean’s office is Owen Hunt, with someone I don’t recognize accompanying him.

We make eye contact for a brief moment. Before, I was used to always seeing him smiling. A gross, slick smile that made my stomach churn, but a smile all the same. Today, he is not smiling whatsoever. His eyes are hooded and dark, thin lips melted into a frown. The person with him keeps talking as Owen holds my gaze for what is probably only a fleeting moment, but feels like forever.

As soon as our eyes break, I start running. The door closes to the Dean’s office and I sprint out of the administrative building in the direction I’d been headed, tears streaming down my face. I pause once I get outside, rest against a pillar, and pull out my phone with shaking hands to dial Jackson’s number.

It rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer. Only then do his words come back to me from earlier: _I’m teaching all morning and have meetings in the afternoon…_

Fuck. He’s not going to answer. I’ll have to deal with this on my own.

I cover my face with my hands and pinch my features, trying to ward off a breakdown I can’t afford. My shoulders shake as I inhale deeply, and I’m nowhere close to centering myself when someone says my name.

“April?”

I lower my hands and, with blurry eyes, see Addison and Amelia standing in front of me with books in tow.

“Are you okay? What are you doing?”

I debate running. I don’t know why, but I do.

Luckily, I go against my instinct and stay where I am, feet planted firmly on the ground. Amelia’s eyes are kind and concerned; Addison’s are straight-up worried.

“I’m not okay,” I admit, voice shaking.

“Okay, come here, come here,” Addie says, widening an arm so I’ll fall against her side. “Let’s get you somewhere safe. We don’t have to stay. Do you wanna go home? Go to the townhouse?”

Amelia takes my hand and interlaces our fingers, Addison’s arm still secure around my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I say, and hold tight to both of them. For the first time in months, I let myself seek comfort in my girlfriends.

We take the bus home, and they don’t press me to talk during the ride. We get to the townhouse and find Alex there - he does a double take when he sees the three of us walk through the front door.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, arms extended to either side on the back of the couch. “The three musketeers’ reunion tour. What are you doin’ home, A?”

I wrap my arms around myself and hunch my shoulders up near my ears.

“I’ll make you some lunch, babe,” Addie says. “Why don’t you sit down? Amy, sit with her.”

Amelia leads me to the couch like I wasn’t there when we bought it, and sits down an inch or two away. She tries to be subtle, but her eyes haven’t left me since the moment we met up.

“You okay?” Alex asks, leaning forward to look at me. “A? Y’alright?”

I meet his eyes quickly before letting out a sigh and looking back down at my knees.

“I saw Owen,” I finally admit. “He was going into the Dean’s office, and he saw me, too.”

“Fuck,” Alex hisses. “Did he say anything to you?”

I shake my head. “Just the look,” I say. “But that was bad enough.”

“God,” Amelia says, and I can tell she wants to reach out and pat my knee, but she pulls a hand back. I don’t know how I feel about that. “I’m so sorry, April.”

We don’t exchange any further conversation until Addison comes in with enough turkey sandwiches for everyone. We don’t talk while we’re eating, either. The only sound in the room is that of the TV, which is turned to some daytime cooking show.

I set my plate on the coffee table when I’m finished and draw my knees to my chest, curling my fingers around them.

“Thanks for lunch, Addie,” I mutter.

“No problem,” she says, nodding to fill the empty space.

Amelia speaks up next. “You know, we wanna be here for you, April,” she says.

My attention flits to her, then Addison, who’s agreeing. Alex stays quiet and complacent, unmoving and unspeaking.

“I don’t know where you’re staying, but you can come home,” Amelia continues. “We want you back at home. I feel like you feel like you can’t be here for some reason. Are you mad at us? Did we do something…? I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”

My throat constricts with anger, but I reel it in and try to control my response.

“It’s not about you, Amy,” I say, with a firm shake of my head. “Far from it.”

“What is it, then?” Addison pipes up.

“I… I don’t know,” I say, breathless.

I try and piece together an answer I’m not quite sure of myself - at least, not consciously. I try not to spend much time thinking about it, because that fateful night is not one I enjoy revisiting. I’ve been doing my best to block it, forget it ever happened. My brain already took care of a chunk, and it’d be great if the rest could go, too.

“Is it about the party?” Addison asks.

“Of course it’s about the party!” I shrill, surprising everyone in the room. Then, much quieter, I repeat, “Of course it is.”

“April, I’m sorry,” Amelia says. “I didn’t know. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I just don’t know what I can do. I wish I could go back in time, and-”

“Yeah, so do I,” I snap.

“A,” Alex says, his tone a warning. “Can you just let her apologize? Quit biting everyone’s heads off.”

“It happened to me,” I say, pointing one finger vehemently at my chest. “Not you, or you, or you. It happened to _me,_ and you didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“We didn’t know!” Addison insists. “You said you and Owen were a thing. So, we didn’t see anything wrong with you guys making out on the couch or going upstairs. We thought you were just gonna go fool around, or-or fuck, or whatever. I’m not making excuses, I’m just saying, that’s what we thought. And when I heard that scream, that’s when I came running.”

She gives me a hard look.

“I wish I could’ve done more. I wish I would’ve known. But you had your reasons for not telling us, and that’s nobody’s fault. I would’ve done something had I just known.”

“Stop putting this on me,” I say, shrinking into myself. “Don’t you think I already blame myself enough?”

“No one’s blaming you,” Amelia says.

“Sure sounds like you are.”

“We’re hurting, too,” she continues. “You’re one of my best friends, April. Knowing someone hurt you kills me. I have nightmares about it almost every night, and I wake up so guilty I wanna throw up. Because I was there, I could’ve done something. I saw it, and didn’t do shit. You don’t think I hate myself? For essentially letting it happen right in front of me? Yeah, I do. But now, it’s over and it happened. And I wanna know what I can do now to help you. You running away every chance you get doesn’t really do much. Do you not wanna be friends anymore, April? Is that it?”

“No…” I say, scratching my jeans with my fingernails. “No, I don’t… no.”

“Please, just let us in,” Amelia says. “That’s all I want, at least. I miss the way things used to be, when we’d tell each other everything. I miss you, April. I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you guys, too,” I admit, and it’s true.

We used to laugh together until we cried, our crop of inside jokes is never-ending, and we were inseparable. Not hanging out with them is like a phantom limb - I always had to remind myself I couldn’t call or text because of how I’d isolated myself.

“So, can we be friends again?” Addie asks. “I know things probably won’t get back to how they used to be. But can we at least try?”

A weak smile filters onto my face as I nod. “Yeah,” I say.

They both smile, and then I do something unexpected. I lower my knees and widen my arms, welcoming them both in a big group hug. We all laugh into each other’s hair and smile when we separate, and I see that Alex is smiling, too.

“So, where in the world have you been staying?” Addison asks.

Alex catches my eye pointedly. I meet his gaze for a split second before going back to Addison.

I want to be friends with them again, but I’m still not ready to give up what Jackson and I have. The two of them won’t understand, and like Jackson said all that time ago, the less people who know, the better.

“I have an aunt who I’m close with,” I say, making up the story as I go. “I’ve been staying with her. I haven’t seen her in forever, and it helps because she’s kinda not doing well right now. I… I think I’ll be with her for a while still.”

“Oh, okay,” Amelia says.

“I thought you didn’t talk to your family anymore,” Addison says.

“Yeah,” Alex chimes in.

I shoot him a very subtle, but very harsh, look.

“Just her,” I say, trying to be as convincing as possible.

I change the subject as quick as I can, and the four of us talk for a while longer. Eventually, Amelia excuses herself to take a shower and Addison has a big paper to write, so just Alex and I are left in the living room.

“Why are you still lying to them, dude?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re still not telling them about the professor shit. Why not?”

I frown. “It wasn’t necessary,” I say.

“You lied about it,” he says. “They asked you point-blank, and you straight-up lied. That’s so unlike you, what is that about?”

“I just don’t need them knowing,” I say. “It’s enough that you know. I’m glad you do, I’m glad at least someone does, but… that’s all. Because once they know, it’s out of my hands. I don’t know who else they’d tell, or who might overhear them talking about it. It’s way too unsafe. I can’t handle that.”

As he’s brought up, thoughts of Jackson inundate my mind. Suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about how horrible I was last night over something he was probably right about. I need to get home and apologize. It’s late, anyway.

“I should get going,” I say, standing.

“Dude, if you don’t wanna talk about it, it’s fine. You don’t have to leave.”

“I should,” I say. “It’s not that, I’m just ready to be home. Will you walk me out?”

Alex gets up, too, and walks me to the front door where I slip back into my shoes and light jacket. Just as I have my hand on the door to leave, Addison comes blustering down the hallway with her phone in hand, the screen lighting up her face.

“Wait, wait, wait, hold up,” she says, lips moving as she reads. “Holy shit. Lexie just texted me. She found out through Mark, who heard from Megan that Owen got expelled.”

I freeze and blink hard, unable to think of an appropriate response.

“Just expelled?” Alex asks incredulously, voicing mine and probably Jackson’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” Addison says. “He got off. But at least he won’t be coming back to school.”

“At least,” I mutter.

“What?” Addie asks.

I shake my head, which makes my hair fly. “Nothing,” I say. “I was just getting ready to go.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Even after finding out about…?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I just wanna get home.”

“Oh, wait,” Alex says. “Before you go.” He hurries upstairs, then comes back down with Liesel in his hands. “You should take her. She misses you, I think. Her petals are starting to look wilty again, and I can’t have a death on my hands.”

I snort. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks for keeping her up while you could.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be back,” I say, to both of them. “Tell Amy, too. I won’t disappear again.”

I bid them goodbye and head to the bus stop with Liesel safe in my cupped palms. I’m not sure what to think about the end result of Owen; all I know is that I want to see Jackson. I need to make things right between us, and I simply need to be with him. It’ll make my head clearer, my thoughts more coherent, more stable in general. I can’t get home fast enough.

When I unlock the front door, the house is dark and quiet. It’s not that late, but it’s obvious Jackson has gone to bed. I can’t wait until morning, though. I have to talk to him now - I have to get this apology off my chest before it eats me alive.

I kick my shoes off, hang up my coat and purse, and head into the bedroom. I see the shape of his body on the bed, and I walk over without changing into pajamas.

Laying two hands on his side, I say, “Jackson, I’m sorry.”

He stirs a bit. “Hmm…?” he says, muffled and confused.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, kneeling by the bed so we’re at face-level with each other. “I’m sorry for the way I acted when you suggested seeing Addie and Amelia again. I’m sorry for lashing out. I shouldn’t have done that, it was really wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

His eyes come open, blinking hard. “April…” he says. “Where’ve you been?”

“At the townhouse,” I say. “Did you hear what I said? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for acting like a baby and getting so irrationally mad.”

He clears his throat, orienting himself. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. “For not telling you about the phone call. You’re right, we’re done with secrets.”

I hold his face and kiss him repeatedly, my mouth wandering from his lips to his cheeks to his forehead.

“I don’t like being mad at you,” I say. “I missed you.”

He smiles softly. “I missed you, too, princess.”

“I promise never to get mad at you again,” I say, standing.

He snorts and says, “Don’t be silly. Even the best couples fight.”

“Not when their partner is as perfect as you,” I say, looking over my shoulder as I take my cardigan off.

He sits up a little, interest piqued as my shoulders and arms become bare. Underneath the white cardigan, I have on a sleeveless blue dress with a skirt that falls to mid-thigh, and knee-high socks.

“You see something you like?” I ask.

“I see many things I like,” he responds, eyes drifting over my body.

I chuckle darkly, keeping my back turned as I tease him with my eyes. “How about I go put some music on, and take all this off for you?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re serious?”

I smirk. “You deserve it. Wait here.”

I go get my phone, then set it on the dresser. I scroll through Spotify until I come to ‘Adorn’ by Miguel, and deem that fitting enough.

When I turn back around, I wipe my mind clear of anything but the way Jackson is looking at me. I don’t think about my friends, I don’t think about school, and most importantly, I don’t think about Owen.

My cardigan is already off, so I move to my hair next. It’s pinned half-back with one of the pretty pins Jackson got me for Christmas, so I pull the pin out - slow and sensual - and capture it between my teeth while I shake my hair out around my shoulders.

“Mm, that hair,” he says, leaning back on his hands, knees spread while his legs hang off the side of the bed.

I run my fingers through it and shake out the tresses, closing my eyes as I do. I get closer to stand between his knees, and he reaches to touch my hair before I gently bat him away.

“Hands off,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes.

He shoots me an amused expression and I twist my arms behind my back. I can’t quite reach the zipper of my dress, so I move my hair to one side and spin around to present it to him.

“Unzip me, please,” I say, and he complies.

He pulls the zipper slowly until it reaches the small of my back. He leans forward and kisses my spine with tongue, but I step away before he can do much.

“Hands off, I said,” I murmur, voice low.

I let the dress fall down my arms and to the floor, where I step out of it slowly. Now, all that’s left is my bra, underwear, and knee socks. I kick the material to the side and walk towards Jackson, hands on his shoulders while I press my forehead against his, both of us breathing heavy together.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded.

I run my hands down his bare chest, stopping at the band of his boxers that I snap before standing up straight again.

“Then it’s working,” I say, and unclasp my bra.

The cups come loose, leaning away from my chest with lessened tension, and I take each strap with two fingers to drag them down my arms with my lower lip in my mouth.

His eyes are cemented on me. They aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

I drop the bra and free my chest, and he drinks in the sight. I smile at his reaction - mental and physical - the bulge in his shorts is blatantly obvious.

“Have I been a good student, professor?” I ask, tugging on my lower lip with the pad of my pointer finger. “Are you gonna give me a good grade?”

He nods, eye-fucking me. His gaze travels up and down my body, pausing in all the right places. I’m perfectly aware of how tightly I have him wound around my finger.

With only my underwear and socks left, I turn around and arch my back, angling my ass towards him.

“Touch me,” I whisper.

He wastes no time in grabbing two generous handfuls of my ass and squeezing, pitching forward to press his lips to the small of my back. He massages my skin fluidly, sensually, and my pulse migrates south to situate between my thighs.

“You grades are good,” he says, dragging his teeth over my skin. “Your ass is better.”

I press my lips together and moan softly, then let him pull off my panties while keeping the socks on. He squeezes my ass cheeks harder, fingers digging in, then bites the swell of the right side. When he pulls away, he smacks it lightly and I buzz in response.

“I gotta get my mouth on you,” he says, moving his hands up to my waist. “Jesus Christ.”

His hands skim my body until they get to my breasts, which he grips confidently - they fit easily in his palms and I lean back once he has a good hold. I drop the back of my head to his shoulder and extend my neck, and he uses that opportunity to lick a long path from my shoulder to my ear.

He gets his underwear off and positions himself to enter me from behind. I I widen my legs to either side of his and face out, running my fingers over his arm that’s belted around my middle to keep me in place.

When he pushes inside me, my eyes drift shut.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he says, when I lift up and sink back down slowly. His breath hits my shoulder blades rhythmically, and his hands find my breasts again. As I move my hips, he tweaks and pinches my nipples until they’re pebbled and straining.

“Harder,” I breathe. “Pinch harder.”

He complies, twisting as he goes. Electricity shoots through every one of my nerves, and I take him as deeply as I can.

“Bite me,” I moan. “Bite me hard, professor.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of my neck and I can’t help but whimper. I lean away to give him access to more skin, and he keeps at me until my eyes fly open and I shriek, staccato and surprised.

When he pulls away, he licks the spot where he’d just been. He runs one finger over the teeth marks and sucks on it, letting the saliva run over my collarbones to drip between my breasts.

With one quick motion, he stands and takes me with him. I fall forward with my hands on the dresser, prepared to be fucked from behind, but he pulls out and spins me around.

Picking me up, he slams my back against the bedroom wall. He keeps a good hold on my thighs as he slams into me and makes the nailed-down frames rattle, along with the odds and ends on top of the dresser next to us.

I throw my head back and whine, and he sucks my earlobes - switching between both of them. My whole body is vibrating, trembling, quivering as he buries himself within me and stakes his claim inside and out. I have given myself over - I am his to take, and he knows it.

I tighten my thighs around him and he pumps as deep as he can, every inch of his body pressed to every inch of mine. I grapple at his shoulders and dig my nails in as a way to keep myself on earth, and he steals the breath from my mouth with a searing, bruising kiss. A brand.

When he comes, it’s hot and powerful, long and lasting. His hips buck feverishly, primally, as my back slips down the wall due to my own sweat. Before I register that he’s finished, he pulls out and I feel some of what he emptied seep out and drip slowly down my inner thighs.

He sinks to his knees and licks my legs - licks away the sweat, the come, everything - until he finds his way to my core. Without wasting time, he tilts his head to one side and kisses the lips that won’t kiss back.

He buries his tongue inside my wet heat and throws one of my legs over his shoulder for a better angle. His mouth slurps against my skin, but he’s unbothered by the salacious sounds as he takes my clit and greedily sucks on it.

“Oh, fuck!” I wail, dragging my nails over his closely-shaved head.

My hips move involuntarily, oscillating against his mouth, essentially trying to fuck his face. He gets forceful and uses two hands to shove them against the wall, and the breath escapes me in one big gust. He keeps one hand where it is and removes the other, using it to touch the tight, puckered hole tucked just a bit further between my legs.

He doesn’t go inside, he just teases the edges, and that’s enough. With my clit in his mouth and two fingers pressing against my ass, I come all over his face and sink to the floor moments later, completely spent.

He’s smiling when I look at him, face flushed and shining from his cheeks down lower.

My heartbeat is still tucked between my legs as I come down from everything my body just experienced. My nipples are sore, my bones ache, and the bite mark on my neck stings, but I’m sated and satisfied to the highest degree.

Jackson helps me off the floor and we head to the bathroom together to clean up. He slaps my bare ass on the way there and I turn around to playfully scold him, but we just end up naked in each other’s arms - kissing in the dim light of the bathroom.

We fuck again in the shower; he bends me over and has his way with me. The sweet kisses he presses over my dripping skin afterwards are the polar opposite of needy hands, grappling fingers and desperate mouths from before, but the juxtaposition is what makes it so good.

Standing under the water jet with him after is therapeutic. He runs his fingers through my soaked hair and kisses my face - my forehead, the space between my eyebrows, my closed eyelids.

“I love everything you are,” he says, words soft as his lips.

I smile gently and place my hands flat on his chest. He doesn’t need to me to respond; he already knows what I’ll say.

I open my eyes as the happenings from earlier tonight come back. I see his are open, too, so I look at them and blink soberly.

“We found out today that the case won’t go to court,” I say. “He’s getting expelled. I’ll never see him again.”

Jackson’s face contorts from brief confusion to realization, then to intense fury. His hands stop moving in my hair, and I wonder if now was the wrong time to bring this up.

“He’s only being expelled?” he asks.

I nod and say, “I won’t ever have to see him again.”

His facial expressions grow rock hard, like a statue, as he shakes his head once. “No,” he says. “Fuck that. That’s not good enough. I won’t stand for this.”


	16. Chapter 16

**JACKSON**

“When did you find out about this?” 

My blood is boiling; the temperature of the water hammering against my back is incomparable. 

April stands before me, wide-eyed. 

“Earlier tonight,” she says, gaze shifting. She lifts her arms and grabs her opposite shoulders, subtly closing herself off. “Addie heard from someone. And I… I saw him on campus today. He was going into the Dean’s office.” 

“Fuck,” I say, clenching my fists. I hate the thought of any part of Owen on April, even his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” 

“You were teaching,” she says. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” 

“I did,” she insists, tone rising. “You were teaching. What was I supposed to do, barge into the classroom and say I needed help? I handled it.” 

“Did he talk to you? Did he touch you?” 

“No,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “We just made eye contact. That was enough.” 

“This is so…!” I bellow, and April gasps as my voice reverberates off the shower walls. Suddenly, they seem to close in and the last place I want to be is trapped in this enclosed space. “I’m sorry. I gotta get out of here,” I say to her. 

I throw open the glass door and dry off, noticing her unobtrusive presence behind me while I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt. I pull the clothes roughly onto my body and stare straight ahead, battling the anger coursing through my system. 

It’s too strong, though. I can’t win. 

“Jackson,” she says, voice feather-soft and timid. I look back to see she’s standing there wrapped in a towel, hair dripping. 

“I can’t sit back and watch this,” I say. “It’s sick, and it keeps happening. Rapists are running around college campuses across the United States. What is fucking wrong with the system that we keep letting this happen? What the fuck is wrong with the world that he could hurt such an innocent, undeserving person and get away with it?”

“He’s not getting away with it,” she says. 

“Yes, he is!” I argue, stomping out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. “He got expelled from UC, which is fine and great. He can’t go to school here anymore, can’t learn here. Sure. But you know what? He can go to school anywhere else. He can re-enroll and his life will go on perfectly fine. He can forget about it, because society told him that he’s allowed to.” 

“It’ll always be on his permanent record,” she attempts. 

“But meanwhile,” I say, continuing in my blind rage as if she never spoke. “You have to remember his face. You have to remember what he did. There’s no retribution for you; what he got barely counts as punishment.” 

My voice is raised now, past the point of control. I’m nearly shouting, and she folds her arms against her chest - a protective move. I barely notice her body language, though. I’m too irate. 

“All of this is so wrong,” I shout. “All of it’s wrong and I have no fucking clue how to fix it.” 

“Jackson,” she says again, eyes watery and round. When I look at her closely, I notice her whole body is subtly trembling - because of me. “Please.”

I step closer and take a deep breath. The last thing I want to do is scare her, but I’m not thinking straight. I’m so angry that I’m seeing red, and logic doesn’t communicate in such a situation. 

“What he did was vile,” I continue, shaking as well - for a much different reason. “He violated you, he took advantage of you. He stuck his fingers in you without your consent, and all he gets is-” 

Her eyes dart away from a spot on the wall to fixate on mine. “He what?” she says, voice wobbling. 

My whole body goes cold as I realize what I’ve done. During the months preceding, April’s brain has blocked the pinnacle event of that night and she hasn’t been able to recall it. Nor has she wanted to. She’s never asked me to clear it up. And now, I’ve let it loose and put it in the open. There’s no going back. 

“He…. he put his fingers in me?” she asks, and two silent tears slide down her cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, firmly, so she knows I mean it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, I didn’t mean for it to come out. We don’t have to talk about it, April. I’m so sorry.” 

She wraps her arms around herself, rubbing her upper arms roughly. 

“No,” she says. “Tell me.” 

Her eyes rise from the floor and lock on my face, unwavering. Her jaw is set, eyes shimmering, blood flushed from her lips to turn them paperwhite. She is the epitome of fear, but she is also fed up. 

“I’m tired of not knowing,” she says. “I want to know. I want you to tell me everything.” 

I frown. “April, where did this come from?” I ask. 

She shakes her head once and a tendril of wet hair falls from behind her ear. “It’s not like you can just drop that bomb and leave me to sit with it,” she says. “It’s a mercy kill. Get it over with.”   

“If it’s going to upset you, no,” I say. “I won’t do that.” 

“You already started it,” she says, unflappable. “So, you have to finish it, Jackson. What did he do to me?” 

I stare at her, silent, for a long while. She’s testing me, and I won’t break. This is not my place - this should be something she unpacks in therapy. I’m not an expert on repression and resurgence; I don’t want something to go wrong. I don’t want to set her back. Most of all, I don’t want to hurt her. 

She uncrosses her arms and lowers them to her sides, rigid. 

“You think I don’t wonder about it every day?” she spits. “I’m to the point of obsessing over it. It’s in my mind, I know it’s there. But I can’t find it. It’s something that happened to  _ me _ , but it’s not there. Just a cold, blank space. I haven’t moved on from it, because it seems like there’s nothing to get over. You know, if I can’t remember it, did it really happen? Maybe I just made it all up. Maybe it’s okay he only got expelled, because it doesn’t seem like he did that much to me.” 

She pauses, swallows hard. 

“Except I know he did. I know something happened, because I feel it in my chest. Like a… like… a rubber band ball, or something, but sick and rotting. The memory is inside my head, festering without me even knowing what it is. I want something to get over, Jackson, so I need you to tell me before I go fucking insane.” 

I’m taken aback. Over the last handful of months, I had no idea all of this was going on. None of her actions led me to believe that she’s still plagued by that night, the happenings that never came back. 

I don’t know what I’m doing, but April is standing in front of me and asking for the truth. The least I can do is give it to her. 

“You were drunk,” I say, clearing my throat to begin. “Very drunk. You told me you kissed Amelia, then ended up with Owen on the couch.” 

“I remember that,” she says, nodding while chewing her lip pensively. “I was wearing a little black crop top with a zipper. He touched it and pretended to pull it down, but I remember thinking that was funny and flirty, or whatever. I didn’t think anything of it.” She stares at the floor, brow furrowed. “I should have.” 

“You didn’t know,” I remind her. “He took advantage of you. You’d had a lot of alcohol that night.” 

She doesn’t respond, but waits for me to continue. 

“He got you upstairs somehow,” I say, clenching my jaw. 

She only told me this story once - the night it happened, but not in great detail. I can’t say I know much more than she does, but I’ll do my best to fill in the big blanks. 

“Into a bedroom, alone. I’m assuming you made out for a while longer, then he tried to push it further. He put his hand up your skirt, got inside your underwear, and fingered you. You screamed and-” 

“Hit him,” she finishes. “I hit him.” 

I close my parted lips before nodding and saying, “Yes, you did.” 

She pinches her lips and creases appear on her forehead. “I remember how that felt,” she says. “I got bruises on my knuckles. I hit him, and… when he got up, I thought he was gonna hit me back.” She frowns deeper. “He didn’t.” 

“You were right to hit him,” I say. 

“No,” she disagrees, closing her eyes briefly. 

“Yes,” I argue. “If you hadn’t punched him in the head, who knows what more he would have done? You saved yourself, April.” 

“I don’t want to hear about how I hit him,” she says, wringing her hands vehemently. “I can’t hear that. I want to be done talking about it now.”  

I nod tersely and stand in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with myself. It’s late, but sleeping doesn’t feel right. I’m still too angry, and talking about it won’t work. My volatile anger scares April, and I can’t blame her for that. I’ll just have plenty to discuss with Naima this week. 

“Will you lay down with me?” April asks, and I snap out of my zone to see she’s no longer in a towel, but soft pink pajamas. 

Of course, I oblige. She crawls into bed and I get in on the other side, reaching for her body instinctively. She curls against me, cold feet on my shins, and hugs my waist with her face pressed to my sternum. 

“I still can’t remember it,” she says. “Only hitting him. That’s all.” 

I don’t respond, I just nod. I relish the feeling of having her so close - her soft, damp hair under my chin, her frigid toes on my legs, her dainty fingers drawing circles on my side.

“Do you think that’s bad?” she asks, vulnerable. 

“No,” I answer, voice sliding through the dark. 

I resist the urge to suggest therapy, because it’s not the right time. I’m not sure it ever will be; that might have to be something she comes to grips with on her own. 

“Will it ever come back?” 

I shrug slightly. “I can’t say,” I respond. “It could come back tomorrow, next week, next year, or never. The human brain is complex.”

She settles closer, tucking her face into my neck. “I’m not sure if I want it back,” she admits. “Why would I want to remember something like that?” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “Remembering can help you overcome it, like you said before.”

She uses one hand to trail her fingers down my chest, tracing the letters on the front of my t-shirt. “Do you think I’m faking?” she asks. 

“No,” I answer, right away. “I would never think something like that. That’s… no, April. I believe you. I’ll always believe you.” 

“Okay,” she says, voice still soft and unassuming. 

As her body softens, mine stays tense and stiff. I’m sure she notices, but she doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, she starts talking about something else. 

“I made up with Addie and Amelia tonight,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows slightly, though she can’t see. “You did?” I ask.

She nods, forehead moving against my neck. “They were there at school, when I saw Owen,” she says. “They took me to the townhouse, and we talked about stuff.” 

“Stuff,” I repeat.

“Yeah,” she whispers, slipping a hand under my t-shirt to rub my back. “They asked where I’m staying.” 

“What’d you tell them?” 

“I lied,” she says. “I still don’t want to tell them, and I know you don’t want me to, either. But what I wanted you to know is that I took your advice, and you were right. I do love them. And I’m glad I let them back in.” 

“Good,” I say, and kiss the top of her head. 

She’s quiet for a while, but I know she isn’t sleeping. The pattern of her breath hasn’t changed, which is always the dead giveaway. 

“Are you mad at me?” she asks. 

The question comes out of the blue. “No,” I say. “Why would you say that?”

She throws a leg over mine, getting closer. With her, it’s always about getting closer. 

“Everything I told you about Owen,” she says. “It got you worked up.” 

“No,” I say. “I don’t like to get that way, but that’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. I’m not mad at you, April. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she says, and seemingly soothed by my words, she drifts off to sleep.

I’m not quite so lucky, though. I lie there staring at the ceiling with the love of my life in my arms, the girl who’s been hurt too many times for my liking, wishing I could do something about it. Owen didn’t get the punishment he deserves - no assailant ever does. If it were up to me, I’d make sure he paid for what he did ten times over.

I barely sleep, and I wake up before the alarm with enough time to go running. April is still slumbering beside me - small, smooth body wrapped up in my own. 

“I’m gonna go for a run,” I whisper, lips ghosting over her hairline. “Okay?” 

She purses her lips as her eyelashes flutter, and a soft sound escapes her throat that I interpret affirmatively.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” I say, caressing her face before kissing her slack lips. “I’ll make us breakfast before school.” 

I slip out of bed and change into my running gear, then set out for downtown. The city isn’t quite awake yet, which is how I like it. There aren’t people to swerve around or wait behind, and I can ignore the traffic signs and run through stoplights. The sun isn’t up yet, either, but it’s on its way. I watch the sunrise while I run as hard as I can along the lake. 

The water is placid, but my heart rate is the furthest thing from it. I push myself hard - harder than usual, until sweat drips down my body in rivers. I sprint until my mind is blank and my lungs scream, but I ignore the physical pain and keep going. I lose track of time, but when I’m back at the entrance to my apartment building, the sun has risen and Chicago has come alive.

I walk in the door just as my phone chimes with an email. With one hand resting on the counter, I pull it out to see it’s from the Dean of the university.

 

> SENDER:  [ hlkaner@uchicago.edu ](mailto:hkaner@uchicago.edu)
> 
> RECIPIENT:  [ javery@uchicago.edu ](mailto:javery@uchicago.edu)
> 
>  
> 
> SUBJECT: Summons - Professionalism Inquiry - Student Complaint
> 
>  
> 
> Dr. Avery,
> 
>  
> 
> It has been brought to my attention by a former student of the university that you may possibly be having relations with a current student. Due to the severity of the issue, please report to my office in the administration building today promptly at 10am. 
> 
>  
> 
> Signed,
> 
> Henry L. Kaner
> 
> Dean of Students

 

“Fuck,” I murmur, and my phone clatters to the kitchen counter just as April walks out of the bedroom, itching her hair. Her pajamas are rumpled, eyes half-lidded, and she’s yawning.

“Morning,” she says, voice raspy.

I lean forward onto the counter with my palms braced in front of me, eyes set ahead and jaw clenched. 

“You sleep good, baby?” she asks. “You go running?” 

I answer neither of her questions because I’m physically incapable. Right now, my world is on the brink of shattering - the crash is put off until 10am, but that’s worse. I know when everything will collapse. There’s a set time for it. 

“Hello…?” she trails off. “Babe?” 

I still don’t open my mouth or move my eyes. I can’t bear to look at her. I can’t bear to indulge in what I’m about to lose. 

“Is something wrong?” 

I take a deep breath as she comes into view, pausing on the other side of the counter and bending her neck to see my face. I debate not telling her, if only to protect her from feeling this way, too. But before I can entertain that idea for long, I realize how stupid it is. I’d only be turning myself into an island for a problem that is, essentially, both of ours. She needs to know - and she deserves as much.

“I got an email from the school,” I say, and hold so still that I feel the blood pumping steadily through my veins. My pulse shows in my neck and the soft insides of my wrist usually, but right now it’s everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if every inch of my skin was throbbing. 

“Yeah…?” she says, sounding confused due to lack of context. She doesn’t yet understand the gravity of the situation, but that will change. 

“The Dean,” I say, voice scarily low. “Henry Kaner.” 

Without looking up, I sense her energy change. The last time she dealt with something involving the Dean, it included Owen. This instance does, too, but in a slightly different way.

He’s the one who will bring our lives to a screeching halt.

“What did he say?” she asks. 

I clear my throat. “He wants to meet with me,” I say. “Today. In three hours, actually.”

“Today… what?” she says. “I’m confused. Why does he want to meet with you?” 

I nudge my glasses higher on the bridge of my nose and stare at the shiny black countertop. I let my head hang so I don’t have to look at the expression in her eyes when I say it. 

“Because I was accused of ‘having relations’ with a student,” I say, breaking the dam.

“What?” she says, shocked.

“Accused, by Owen,” I finish. “And I surmise I’ll get interrogated.” 

The breath leaves her body. She stumbles backward before grabbing the back of a chair, and when she speaks her voice is higher like tears are imminent. 

“What are we gonna do?” she asks, desperately. 

I blink hard. I have to keep my head on straight. I won’t let myself fly off the handle, no matter how emotional I feel. I push aside everything and think only about the problems at hand. 

My livelihood. My reputation. And most of all, the woman crying in front of me. 

“I’m going to go to campus,” I say. “And you’re going to stay here.” 

“I can’t stay here!” she insists, growing hysterical. 

“You have to,” I say, finally looking up. “April, I’m not asking. If I know you’re on campus, it’ll be harder to answer their questions. I need to know exactly where you are; I need to know you’re here. I need to know that when it’s over, I can come back and find you.” I let my eyes soften. “I’m going to need you.” 

She’s shaking. “What’s going to happen?” she asks, then speaks again. “Jackson, what’s going to happen to us?” 

I close my eyes for a moment to shake my head. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “But whatever the outcome, I do not plan on giving you up.” 

…

Dressed in a crisp suit, I try to hide the fact that my palms are sweating when I walk into the administrative building. I don’t spend much time in here and I’m not familiar, but I walk with purpose like I am. Confidence is key. Confidence is everything. 

I would tell myself I have nothing to hide, but that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I have everything to hide, along with everything to lose. This situation can only end in one way that works in my favor: I have to come out of this office without any further suspicions. 

I can’t go in angry, I can’t go in breezy. I have to appear as if I’m taking this accusation seriously, all the while denouncing it could ever happen. It’s going to be a very difficult line to toe, but I have no choice but to walk it. The rest of my life depends on the following thirty minutes, in a small office with an unfamiliar higher-up. 

I introduce myself to the secretary and she shows me where to sit. When I find a chair, I don’t bother pulling out my phone or leafing through a magazine. Instead, I stare at the wall and ground myself. I can stay even, I can stay cool. I won’t let the turmoil inside my chest get the best of me. 

“Dr. Avery,” I hear, and Henry Kaner comes out of his office dressed in a suit akin to mine. “Please, come in.”

I stand and flash a cordial smile, shaking his hand before entering his office. When he closes the door, anxiety flares in my gut though I try to shove it down. I never do well with closed quarters and being put on the spot. 

He sits down across from me and I try to hide my nerves. I’m unsure if it works, but I do my best to appear even-keeled. 

“I’m sure it’ll benefit the both of us if we skip the wasted time with pleasantries,” he says, folding his hands atop the desk. “And cut straight to the point. You’re aware of why you’re here, Dr. Avery, am I correct?” 

“Yes,” I answer.

I remind myself to keep my answers succinct. Long-windedness is a sure sign of covering up the truth. As far as he’s concerned, I have absolutely nothing to cover up.

“The basis of the claim stems from a former student who wishes to remain anonymous,” he says. “But he filed a complaint that claims you have been inappropriate with a female student. A female student by the name of April Kepner. Are you familiar with this young lady, Dr. Avery?” 

I keep my expression placid. “Yes, I am,” I say. “She was in my Gender and Sexuality course last quarter, and she’s attends my Topics in the Study of Sexuality course presently.” 

“And is this claim true, what the former student has suggested? Have you and Miss Kepner upheld an inappropriate relationship?” 

I think of the first time I kissed her. In my office, lain across the desk. I think of the first time I ate her out, with her knees spread wide as I knelt before her, at her mercy. I think of the first time we had sex. I think of saving her, I think of her saving me. I think of breaching my trauma to her, the first person whom I’ve ever told that wasn’t my therapist. I think of her hanging up Christmas decorations in the apartment. I think of waking up next to her every morning. I think of her laugh, her tears, her tongue sticking out when she’s concentrated. I think of the fact that she’s waiting for me at home this very moment, as we speak. 

“No, sir,” I say. 

He leans forward a bit. “What grounds would this former student have in accusing you?” he asks. 

I lick my lower lip and decide to take a chance. “Without being too forward, sir,” I say. “Is the accuser in question a former student who goes by the name of Owen Hunt?” 

Of course, I already know the answer. But the Dean isn’t aware of that. In more areas than one, I have to play dumb. 

He can’t come out and tell me I’m right. But he makes sure I know by the way his face changes. 

I clear my throat. “I thought as much,” I say. “It’s become known around campus that Mr. Hunt has been expelled due to rape charges against Miss Kepner, has it not?” 

We make heavy contact. 

“The two of them were in my class together last quarter. It was clear Mr. Hunt had an interest in Miss Kepner, but the feelings were not reciprocated. More than once, I was forced to step in because of how forward Mr. Hunt was being. If I had to guess, this was the reason he chose to lash out and attempt to bring my name down with his.” 

I sit up straighter. 

“I’ve had nothing to do with April Kepner, sir, except within the constraints of a teacher/student relationship. She is a wonderful student and a quick learner. I am very sorry to hear what happened to her, and hoped more could be done in light of the situation. But what I won’t have is my name slandered along with the real threat, the real threat being Mr. Hunt.” 

I sit confidently once I’m done speaking and know there’s nothing more that needs to be said - I’ve said it all. 

“Thank you very much, Dr. Avery,” he says. 

I dislike lying. I’m sure I would dislike losing my career more, but covering the truth in such a way has shifted my mindset back to when I was a child, forced to lie for my grandfather. I’m fully aware that the two situations are much different, but the taste of a lie on my tongue is one I will never be comfortable with. 

“Of course,” I say. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” 

He shakes his head and stands to usher me out of his office. I glance at the wall clock in the lobby to find I was in that room for less than seven minutes, which is surreal. It seems like the whole day has gone by. 

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” he says. “And Dr. Avery, I’d like you to know his accusation never held any weight from my perspective, but there’s legalities to all of this. It was protocol to have you in, but I do apologize for wasting your time.” 

“I understand,” I say, and shake his hand before leaving in hopes of never stepping foot in there again. 

When I get to the car, the appropriate reaction would be to smile, laugh uncontrollably, celebrate. But instead, as I sit in the driver’s seat my eyes burn with tears and I smack the steering wheel with all the force I can muster. Anger and sadness course through my body. I never want to be in that position again; it’s not something I take lightly, nor something I could handle repeating.

I went through years of lying to keep someone else safe, and I won’t do it again. Even if it is for a very different reason, I refuse to live in constant fear that the law will catch us around every corner.

I love April too much for our relationship to detonate and blow up our lives. 

The end of this quarter, when she is no longer my student, can’t come soon enough.

…

When I walk into the apartment, I hear movement immediately as April rushes to meet me. 

“Baby,” she breathes.

There are tear-stains on her face, shiny rivers that disappear beneath her chin. Before I can get my shoes off, she throws herself into my arms and hugs me as tightly as she can. 

“Hey,” I say, voice soothing as I rub her back. “Hey. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

She sobs, little hiccuping cries that sound next to my ear. “I was so worried,” she whimpers, still clinging tight. “What happened? Tell me what happened.” 

“Shhh, we’re fine,” I say, and pry her off to look at her face. “Everything is gonna be fine.” 

She wipes beneath her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Everything’s fine?” she asks. 

I nod and take my shoes off, then lead her further inside to sit on the couch. 

“What happened?” she asks again. 

“I told the Dean that all Owen was trying to do was slander my name along with his,” I tell her. “He told me, after I said that, that Owen’s claim never held a lot of weight, anyway. It was just protocol to have me in. It’s over. We’re just fine.” 

“Oh, god,” she says, and throws her arms around me again. “Jackson,” she says, voice in my neck. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault; it’s my fault you had to do that. It’s not fair, that you have so much to lose and I… I… I just love you, that’s all I know. I can’t lose you. But if you want to take a break until everything blows over, I’ll understand.” 

I frown and shake my head, then hold her jaw in my palms. 

“Princess, no,” I say, and she hiccups at the use of the nickname. “There’s nothing to blow over. Nothing happened. There’s no investigation, no second layer. It’s done now.” 

“But you could’ve lost everything,” she says. “All because of me.” 

“No,” I say, stroking her cheekbones. “Last time I checked, I’m pretty damn in love with you, too. This is a two-way street. Yes, this was scary and I didn’t enjoy doing it. I was terrified. It didn’t put me in a good place. But it’s over now, and that’s what matters.” 

“You had to lie,” she sobs, doubling over to hide her face. “You had to lie, and I know doing that reminds you of bad things. But I made you.” 

“Hey,” I say, gently pulling her hands away to look at her damp face. “Stop that. I lied because I chose to, and because I can’t bear to lose you. You’re the one thing in my life that means the most, do you hear me? More than my job, more than my education, more than anything I can think of. I’d lie again for you; I’d do anything to make sure you stay in my life. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she breathes, still crying. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

I kiss her, firm and full of emotion, tasting tears on her lips. 

“Only half a quarter left,” I say. “Then, you won’t be my student anymore. And we won’t have to worry about anything ever again.” 

…

April leaves early on the morning of her last exam of spring quarter. Usually, I’m awake and getting ready first, but she’s out the door just as I’m climbing out of bed. 

“Bye, baby,” she says, coming into the bedroom with her backpack already slung over one shoulder. “Wish me luck.” 

“You’ll do great,” I say, rubbing one eye with a closed fist. 

“Give me a kiss,” she says, bending in half while holding one of her straps. I kiss her and taste mint toothpaste. “I love you. See you at the park for our picnic later?” 

“Yes, you will,” I say, then wave her off. “I love you, too, princess.” 

I smile to myself as I head into the bathroom, licking my lips, still able to taste her. I smile wider when I look in the mirror and see that, in red lipstick, she’s written:

_ Have a good day, professor ;) _

I leave it, glancing at the words every now and then while I go through my morning routine. My chest warms with the knowledge that she thought of me, and went the extra mile to let me know.

The day passes quickly, my thoughts inundated with April throughout the whole thing. When it’s finally time to meet her at the park, I couldn’t be happier. 

I drive the short distance and assume she’s already there. I nod to myself as I park and get out, catching sight of her in the middle of a grassy knoll wearing a high-waisted floral skirt that billows around her legs with a coral t-shirt on top. Her hair is pulled up in a casual bun, and I see flyaways twirling around her face from a good distance away. 

“Hey, beautiful girl,” I call, once I get a little closer. 

A big smile adorns her face when she sees me. She lifts up to her knees and kisses me once I reach the blanket, and pats the spot next to her so I’ll sit. 

“I’ve been waiting,” she says. 

“Not long, I hope,” I say, getting comfortable. 

“No,” she says, stretching her bare legs out. “It’s nice and warm, anyway.” 

I smile at her, resting my weight back on my hands. “So, how’d your test go?” 

She grins cockily and says, “So easy.” 

“Think you aced it?” 

“I know I did,” she says.

I smirk and take her chin between my thumb and first finger, then lean over to kiss her. “My baby is so smart,” I say. 

“I know,” she says. “Should we eat?”

We dig into the picnic basket I packed last night, full of sandwiches, cut-up fruit and dark chocolate. We share a bottle of lemonade and plenty of kisses, and both of our stomachs are full once the basket is empty. 

“I can’t believe I’m technically a senior now,” April says, reclining to rest her head on my thigh. “Isn’t it weird?” 

“It’s freeing,” I say, unwinding her bun to let her hair loose. “We’re out here right now in public, and I’m not even worried.”

“I’m not your student anymore,” she says, then reaches to touch my chin. She bats her eyelashes and turns coy when she she asks, “But Dr. Avery, won’t you miss teaching me?” 

I swipe my thumb over her eyebrow. “I can teach you plenty of other things, don’t worry,” I say. 

One side of her lips pulls up in a sly smile. 

“Now we can just be... a couple,” she says, holding my wrist. “Look at us, out in the open, being romantic. Just like a pair of people who love each other, that’s it. No sneaking around, no lying… just us. Being us.” 

“Being us,” I say, and kiss her forehead. 

She giggles. “We can do anything,” she says.

“Anything, huh?” I say.

Her eyes glint. “Yeah, now that we’re not held down. We…” She giggles. “You could knock me up, and the school couldn’t say a thing. I could have your baby, and there would be nothing to hide. I’d just be a pregnant girl who’s super in love with her boyfriend. What would be so crazy about that?” She giggles again, lips pinched together cutely. “Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

“Well, before we have a baby, we have to get married,” I say, going along with her train of thought. 

“So traditional,” she says. 

“What can I say, I’m old-fashioned,” I say.

“More like just old,” she whispers. 

She cracks up and I roll my eyes playfully. 

“What names do you like?” she asks, eyes sparkling as she looks at me. “For a baby. You tell me your favorites, and I’ll tell you mine.” 

“Are we planning our future right now?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. 

“Just for fun,” she says. “It’s always something I’ve thought about.” 

“Okay, you go first,” I say. “I don’t have an answer yet.” 

She throws her arms over her head as she prattles off a list. “I’ve always liked Savannah and James,” she says, so sure of herself. 

I take a while to think. Admittedly, it’s not something that has crossed my mind often - if ever. Fatherhood has never been in my orbit. I never thought I’d be much of one, and I’ve never had the inclination. Not until I met her - the beautiful girl strewn across my lap with the world-ending smile. 

“I like those,” I say. “And I like Julian for a boy, Evangeline for a girl.” 

“Pretty,” she says thoughtfully, expression dreamy. 

“Just like you,” I say, then pause before continuing with, “You’ll be the best mother.” 

Her face flushes. I can tell it’s something she’s never been told before, and I wonder why. She possesses all the fitting qualities - she’s the most nurturing person I’ve ever known, the most loving. She was meant for motherhood. 

“I love you,” she says, then giggles. “I don’t wanna scare you, but there’s no one else I’d rather raise a child with.” 

I bend in half to kiss her soundly on the lips. “Someday,” I say, then linger with the tip of my nose grazing hers. “Someday.” 


	17. Chapter 17

**APRIL**

The weather gets warmer as weeks pass and summer arrives. The nights are pleasant, so we keep the windows open in the bedroom so a breeze comes in as the sun rises. 

Even so, I sleep shirtless most of the time. Sometimes completely naked, but comfortable underwear are acceptable, too. Last night I went to bed in a pair with pink stars, and I wake up to them being taken off. 

I haven’t risen fully to the surface of consciousness yet, so I keep my eyes closed. Jackson’s fingers lock around the waist of my panties and tug them down my legs slowly, following the path with his lips. I just shaved yesterday, so my skin is soft and smooth under his tongue as he leaves a trail of moisture behind. 

I still don’t open my eyes, but I feel him spread my thighs so there’s enough room for his body to fit. He places gentle fingers on the soft parts of my legs and strokes my skin with his thumbs, then presses a gentle kiss to my core.

“Mmm…” I rasp, situating my hips to spread my legs wider. 

He smiles against me and goes back for more. He’s not rushed or forceful - I almost don’t know how to take this. 

“Good morning, princess,” he says, leaning up to kiss me on the mouth. I taste myself on his lips. 

“Morning,” I say, opening my eyes to slits so I can watch him. He’s shirtless, wearing only Calvin Klein underwear, and in need of a shave. His stubble scratches my inner thighs, but I don’t complain. “What’s this all about?” 

He kisses the front of my pubic bone and runs his nose through the hair between my legs. “Because I love you,” he says. “And I’m a little stressed out.” 

“So, going down on me helps relieve  _ your _ stress?” I ask, giggling. 

“Your pleasure is mine,” he replies, teasing me with one finger. “You know that.” 

I moan as his tongue disappears within me, taking long strokes while his eyes close. 

“Yes, I do,” I say, moving to tightly grip a breast in either hand while he ravishes me. I let my thighs fall fully open - wide and slack - and he keeps them there by pressing flat hands against the inside of my pelvis. 

My hips buck to meet his chin when he hits just the right spot, and he chuckles, keeping at it. He closes his eyes and uses his teeth, and my body responds in all the right ways - keening and writhing as he manipulates my nerves. 

“Why… are you stressed, baby?” I ask, while he sucks on my outer lips. 

“Mm,” he grunts, lifting his face and slipping in two fingers instead. “My students aren’t catching on. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’m running out of tactics.” 

“Too bad they’re not…” I say, then yelp, eyes rolling back as his thumb presses hard against my clit. “More like me.” 

“Too bad  _ everyone _ isn’t more like you,” he says, pressing a line of kisses along my lower belly. 

My body jerks and twitches when I come, and I press my feet down hard onto his back. He doesn’t stop until I’m dripping - bodily fluids trickling down my outer lips, inner thighs, over the swell of my ass. 

“We’ll have to throw this in the washer,” I breathe, hand to my heart. 

“No,” he says, and disappears between my legs against to lick my skin in long, slow strokes, cleaning it up with his tongue before the liquid can reach the duvet. I twitch with the aftershocks, and let out a loud, shaky exhale.

“Jesus, baby,” I say, turning my head to the side to watch him as he crawls up my body. 

He smiles, pleased with himself before taking my jaw to kiss me. “Good morning,” he says again. 

I turn on my side and press the front of my body against his, curling around him like a cat. “You’re so good to me,” I whisper. 

He reaches low and cups my ass with one hand, patting it a few times before smiling and giving me yet another kiss. 

“I love you,” he says.

I kiss his chin and enjoy the feeling of his hand on my butt, then blink up through my eyelashes. “What are you doing today?” I ask.

He sighs and says, “I have to go in and teach.” 

I make a pouty face. “Oh, baby,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry they’re stressing you out.” 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head once. “I’ll live,” he says. 

I rest with my ear over his heartbeat and think for a while, wondering what I can do to improve his situation. I have an idea, but I’m not sure he’ll go for it.

“I might have something that would help,” I say, trailing my fingertips over his side. 

“Yeah, what?” 

I shrug, drawing nonsense shapes now. “Weed is good for stress,” I say. “It really mellows you out. I know we haven’t talked about it much, and I’m not a stoner. I only do it once in a while, usually with Alex. But… I don’t know. I’d smoke with you, just to see.” 

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I’m afraid I’ve stepped over the line. It was a childish and immature thing to suggest, and now he thinks I’m stupid. 

“You have some on you?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I could get it, though. From Alex.”

He pauses again, presumably thinking.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?” 

I prop myself up on an elbow and look at him incredulously. “Wait,” I say. “Seriously?” 

He laughs. “Sure,” he says. “Why are you so shocked?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I have fun sometimes, too, you know,” he says, ribbing me. 

“I know,” I say, shoving his chest lightly. “You just continue to surprise me.” 

We decide that I’ll hang out at the townhouse today while he’s at school, not only to see my friends but to get the contraband, too. I’m sure Alex will get a big kick as to why I need it. 

I’m in the car with Jackson, flipping through radio channels a little while later. I can’t find something that isn’t on commercial, but I keep trying anyway. 

“Hey, I finally thought of a favorite song,” he says. “I mean, my favorite of all time.” 

I stop channel surfing and direct my attention over to him. “Oh, yeah?” I say. 

“Uh-huh,” he says, rubbing his thumbs against the steering wheel. “‘Songbird’ by Fleetwood Mac.” 

“That song came out in like, 1977,” I say, after Googling it quickly on my phone. “I wasn’t even alive.” 

“Well, neither was I,” he says, laughing softly. “Not quite.” 

“You’re still old, though,” I say, scrunching my nose. 

“And you’re still mean,” he says. “The song is good. It’s stuck with me for years and years. You know those songs that, when you listen, they take you back to the first time you heard them?” 

I nod, knowing exactly what he means.

“It’s like that with ‘Songbird,’” he continues. “The first time I heard it, I was sitting on the beach with my mother. It was playing from this tiny radio we had. It wasn’t a sunny day, only mildly warm, but we were together. And that was enough, for just that day. It was perfect.” 

“That sounds really nice,” I say, reaching to set a hand on his thigh. “No wonder it’s your favorite.” 

He smiles and kisses my cheek as we pull up to the townhouse. 

“I’ll be back to pick you up after I’m done,” he says. 

“Okay,” I say, and as I’m getting out of the car he reaches over and smacks my ass. “Hey!” I laugh.

“Don’t forget the you-know-what,” he says, eyes glinting.

“You’re bad,” I say, but then wave him goodbye. “I won’t. See you in a little while.” 

I walk to the front door and wave to Jackson before disappearing inside. I blow him a kiss and turn the doorknob, opening it to find Addison, Amelia and Alex sitting in the living room in the middle of what looks like an interesting conversation. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I heard,” Addie says, gesturing with her hands as she looks at Amelia. Her gaze lingers for only a moment before getting distracted with my entrance. “Baby A,” she says, tone lightening. “What are doing here?” 

“Hello to you, too,” I say, giggling as I take off my shoes. 

“We were actually just talking about you,” Amelia says. 

“Kind of,” Addison cuts in. 

“Not really,” Alex finishes. 

I quirk my eyebrows. “You guys are acting weirder than usual,” I say. “What are you talking about?” 

“Uh, it’s kinda crazy,” Addie says. “Come here. I’ll tell you about it. It’s just shit I heard around campus. Also, the group chat I’m still in for my old biology group would not shut up about it. I don’t know how many people know or whatever. I can’t believe you haven’t heard.”

I frown. “What’s going on?” 

“Dude,” she says, leaning forward with wide eyes as I sit next to Alex on the couch. “Apparently Owen accused this Professor Avery guy of being inappropriate with a student. He teaches a bunch of gender and sexuality courses in the Cobb building.” 

“And you came up because… didn’t you have him in fall quarter?” Amelia asks.

My face heats up and I beg and plead a blush not to appear. I’m not sure what my face looks like, but I do everything in my power to keep my expression placid and calm. 

I swallow hard before speaking. 

“I haven’t heard anything like that,” I say, quieter than I intended. 

“That’s so like… gross,” Addie says, raising her upper lip. “Like, that’s taking advantage of a young woman. That’s total abuse of the power relationship.” 

“It’s some Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky shit,” Amelia pipes up. 

“Owen’s a fucking bitch ass rapist,” Alex says. “Aren’t you forgetting that? So what, he accused this dude. How serious are you gonna take anything he says? All he wanted to do was bring someone else down with him. Someone who’s probably innocent, for all we know.” 

My chest opens up and lightens. Suddenly, I owe Alex my life. 

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Addie says. “It still feels shady. Where would he pull it from if he didn’t have something to base it off? Seems random.” 

“That’s not just something you make up,” Amelia says. 

“Well, we wouldn’t know,” Alex says. “We aren’t rapists. They think in weird, fuckery ways. I honestly can’t believe you’re siding with him over a dude who probably didn’t do anything wrong. That’s pretty fuckin’ harsh.” 

“Yeah, okay, we don’t know if he did anything. But what if he did?” Amelia asks. 

“Then I’d side with the girl he hurt,” Addie says, palms up. 

“Owen hurt someone,” I cut in. “Me. You… we don’t know anything about Dr. Avery. So, maybe we shouldn’t even talk about it.”

“Doctor?” Addison asks. 

I shoot her a look. “He has a doctorate. I took two of his classes.” 

“Oh,” she says, eyeing me for longer than necessary. 

“You shouldn’t go after people you know nothing about,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant while bristling inside and out. “He might be a good guy, for all we know. He was really cool when I was in his classes.”

Alex’s presence beside has never been more electric. 

“Baby A, did he ever try and come onto you?” Amelia asks, suddenly, as if she’s had a revelation. 

“Would you stop?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. 

“It’s so weird, you know, that we were joking you should try and bang him at the beginning of the year,” Addison says. “And now he’s like, actually banging a student. I feel kinda gross, honestly.” 

“How about we leave the poor fuck alone?” Alex chimes in.

“Of course,  _ you _ side with him,” Amelia says. “You’re a dude and dudes think gross shit. April, I’m not sure why you’re not more against him. A predator hurt you, and now you’re like, defending Professor Avery when he could very well be doing the same thing to another innocent girl.” 

I roll my eyes vehemently. “Dr. Avery isn’t a predator,” I say. “You don’t know anything for sure, so why are we still talking about it? Why are you wasting your breath?” 

“Why are you getting so mad?” Addie asks, looking angry and confused. 

“I’m not mad,” I say, trying to snuff my lit fuse. 

“She’s probably just hungry,” Alex says, standing up to walk in the direction of the kitchen. “I have leftovers from Maggiano’s the other night. You want those, you grumpy fuck?” 

I catch his eye, able to read everything going on inside his head. He’s saving me. 

“Yeah, sure,” I say, then get up to follow him. “Sorry, guys.” 

“You know she’s a bitch when she’s hungry!” Alex calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. 

Once we’re alone and out of the others’ earshot, I let out a long sigh and look at him with worry in my eyes. “Thanks,” I say. 

“Yeah,” he replies. 

I lean on the counter and stare out the window into the alley. The view from the kitchen has never been that great. 

“Are people really talking about it that much?” I ask. “How did it get out? How do people know?”

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “Honestly, I don’t. That fucker Owen probably told someone he pointed the finger and it spread that way. Wouldn’t surprise me, you know.” 

“Yeah, probably,” I grumble. 

“So, what happened?” he asks. “Did Avery actually get called in and shit?” 

I meet his eyes, mine guarded. “Yes,” I answer. 

“And?” 

I chew the side of my cheek and glance towards the living room. “The accusations were lifted,” I say. “The Dean apparently said that Owen’s words never meant much, anyway. They brought Jackson in for protocol’s sake.” 

“Jesus,” Alex says. “Must’ve scared you shitless, though.” 

“That’s an understatement.” 

We spend a few more minutes in the kitchen before silently passing the girls to head up to the room that used to be mine and is now Alex’s. I’m fine with it, more so because he’s paying my share of the rent while living here. 

He closes the door as I sit down on the familiar bed. 

“How’s the damn plant been?” he asks. 

I snort. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know her name,” I say. 

“How’s the damn plant been?” he repeats, purposefully avoiding her name. 

“ _ Liesel _ has been fine,” I say, smirking. “She misses you, though. I’ll tell her you asked about her.” 

“Yeah, don’t,” he says, making a face. “That’s creepy.” 

I laugh and fall back onto the mattress, legs hanging off the side. “You’re creepy,” I say. 

“Whatever,” he says. “So, now that I know about the plant, how about you? How are you doing? And your controversial man?” 

I can’t help but laugh, loud and brash. “We’re fine,” I say. “We’ve been doing really good, actually, since school got out. I’m not his student anymore, so… you know. There’s a lot less hiding.” 

“That’s gotta be nice.” 

“It is,” I say. “Especially after the scare. That was really… scary, to say the least.” 

“I bet.” 

“He’s been stressed, though,” I say. “He’s got a class full of idiots right now. But anyway, what’s been going on with you?”

I turn my head to look at him as he sits down on the end of the bed. “Not much,” he says. “Been working and stuff, hanging out, I guess. I miss you, dude. I miss you, like, being around and bugging the shit out of me.” 

“You do?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Those two downstairs aren’t fun. They take everything so damn serious all the time.” 

“Yeah,” I say, looking at my nails. “They can be buzzkills sometimes.” 

“And they won’t smoke with me,” he says. “Which is annoying.” 

When he brings up the subject of weed, my memory is sparked. “Oh, I was gonna ask,” I say, lifting onto my elbows. “Could I get some weed from you?” 

“You wanna smoke right now?” he asks. “I can, but you don’t usually-”

“Well, no, not right now,” I say. “I told Jackson that he and I could, together. If you wouldn’t mind giving me just a little. It doesn’t have to be a lot. I just… he’s stressed, like I said. I told him it might help him calm down and chill out.”

“The professor, chilling out,” Alex says. “You’re funny.”

“Will you?” I ask. “I’m not using you, I swear. I miss you, too. I wanted to see you today. But this favor kinda just like, came along with it. And I can pay you, if you want.” 

He looks at me for a long time, sussing up the situation. Then, finally, he sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Come on, dude, you don’t have to pay me,” he says.

I open my mouth to thank him, but he cuts me off with a flick of his hand. 

“But I do come at a price."

I narrow my eyes. “What?” I ask, then shake my head. “I’m not kissing you, if that’s what you’re thinking, you crackhead.” 

“Come on,” he groans. “That’s so last year. No, dude. I wanna come see you and Avery. Not while you smoke, so don’t get your panties in a knot. Just like, chill. I wanna meet this guy for real, see what’s so great about him. If you like him so much, I think it’d be cool to hang out.” 

That definitely wasn’t what I expected.

“Seriously?” I say. 

He nods. “Yeah,” I say. “Is that price too steep?” 

“No,” I say. “No, I think it’d be kinda fun.” 

He smirks. “You think I’ll like this guy?” 

I giggle a bit. “Maybe,” I say.

“Think he’ll like me?” 

I shrug. “It’s impossible not to like you,” I say. 

“Izzie would disagree,” he mumbles. 

I move my lips to one side in a sympathetic expression. “You wanna talk about her?” I ask. 

He meets my eyes for a split second before shaking his head quickly. “Nah,” he says. “Let me get your eighth, then we can decide when we’re all gonna hang out.” 

…

That night, after dinner, Jackson and I are sitting on the balcony overlooking downtown with two glasses of wine between us. 

“I got the weed from Alex,” I say, looking over.

When he picked me up, I hadn’t bothered to mention it but felt the weight sitting heavy in my purse. He had plenty to talk about in relation to the class he taught, and through dinner we talked about the fact that Alex wanted to come over. It simply hadn’t come up yet, but now seems like the perfect time. 

“Oh, yeah?” he says, interest piqued. 

“Yeah,” I say. “Want me to get it? Do you still want it?” 

He nods, watching me as I go back inside the house. I return with the weed and papers, and as I sit down I realize I don’t have much experience in rolling a joint. Alex and I always smoke together, and that’s his job.

“Uh… shit,” I say, laying everything out on the small table that holds our wine. “I guess I don’t really know how to do this.” 

Jackson laughs softly. “I got it, don’t worry,” he says.

I shoot him an incredulous expression. “You know how?” I ask. 

He purses his lips. “Princess, come on. I might be almost 40, but I was a teenager at one point. A teenager who liked to smoke weed, too.” 

“Hey,” I say, smacking his wrist. “I’m no teenager.”

“You get what I mean,” he says, benignly. “Either way, I know what I’m doing. And as you know, I’m very good with my fingers.” 

My core buzzes at the thought, and I roll my eyes at what little restraint I have when it comes to him. 

He wasn’t bluffing when he said he knew how - he rolls us each a joint that comes out better than anything Alex has ever done. 

“Are you holding out on me?” I ask, digging for a lighter. “Do you have a secret habit I should know about?” 

“I told you all my secrets,” he says, letting me light the end of his joint. “You know that.” 

“Yes, I do,” I say, inhaling for the first time. After holding it, I blow smoke out when I say, “And my memory is long.” 

We lock eyes and he smiles, blowing smoke from his lips and inhaling it back through his nose, which is something I find incredibly sexy. He’s confident in everything he does, and this is no exception. With the way he holds himself, it seems he’s been smoking regularly for years when I know that isn’t the case. 

Since neither of us are habitual smokers, though, it doesn’t take long for the drug to get to our heads. When our joints are gone, I feel mellow and blissed out, and I assume Jackson does, too. He’s leaning back in the chair and staring at the stars, eyes hazy and speech slow. 

I can’t resist. I get up and walk the short distance between us, then sit forward on his lap. He welcomes me instantly, hands firm on my waist. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “Thank you for doing this. I feel so good.” 

“I do, too,” I say, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek. “Maybe we should do it more often.” 

“I wouldn’t say no,” he says, running his hands up my sides. He blinks slowly and stares at my face. “Remember when you asked me about soulmates?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” I say, hands on his jaw as I stroke his facial hair with my thumbs. “A long time ago.” 

“Mm-hmm,” he says, sitting up a bit to press kisses to my open chest, over the freckle he’s always loved. 

“What about it?” I say. 

“I just think you’re mine,” he says, then lets his head fall back to rest on the chair again. “You’re my happy ending. You know, my life has been… difficult, to say the least. You’re the first good thing I’ve ever had.” 

“It’s not an ending, though,” I say, still running my fingers through the hair on his cheeks. “It’s just the beginning.” 

“You know what I mean,” he says, then giggles. “I hope. Because I’m not really sure what I mean.” 

“You’re stoned, baby,” I say, hugging his head closer. “It’s okay to not make sense.” 

“How’s this for making sense…” he says, then looks into my eyes - sea glass green and shining in the low light. “Marry me.” 

I scoff, running my hands over his closely-shaved hair. “Ask me when you’re sober, then we’ll talk,” I say, joking along with him. I can’t stop giggling, and neither can he.

He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “Look, I’m sober,” he says. “April Esther, will you marry me?”

“You’re not sober,” I whisper theatrically. “‘Cause sober Jackson would know better than to use that awful religious name.”

“Hmm, maybe so,” he says, then laughs out loud. “What’s it mean, anyway? What’s it from?” 

“The Bible, dummy,” I say, hands on his shoulders. 

“But  _ specifically _ ,” he says, emphasizing the word. “Tell me the story.” 

I groan. “Jackson…” I say.

“Don’t make me propose again,” he says, playfully threatening. 

I roll my eyes. “She was a queen,” I say. 

“More,” he says. “Tell me more.”

“This isn’t Sunday School,” I say. 

“Be  _ my _ teacher for once,” he says, hands sneaking around front to grab my breasts softly. I’m not wearing a bra, so the only thing separating his palms and my hard nipples is the thin fabric of my shirt. 

“Well,” I say, giving in. “She’s from the Old Testament, which is where Judaism stems from, actually. Did you know that?” 

He shakes his head and says, “I know next to nothing about religion. Teach me.”

I grin a bit and trace the shells of his ears, letting my mind regress to where it used to go so easily, so ritually. To stay alive in my childhood home, these were stories I had to know. And I knew them - backwards and forwards, in my sleep, while being beaten. Through everything.

But I’m in a better place now, and it doesn’t hurt to recall them. Instead, it’s like trying on an old, worn-in pair of shoes. They don’t quite fit, but they remind me of the times I had while wearing them. 

“A Jewish woman named Esther was taken with other young women to a citadel,” I begin. “Esther's cousin, Mordecai, had taken Esther in and raised her as his own after Esther's parents died. A man named Hegai was put in charge of preparing women for meeting the king, and Esther's beauty won her over with Hegai and he gave her special attention. But Esther was careful not to tell anyone her nationality, because Mordecai had warned her not to. When it was Esther’s turn to go before the king, he immediately found her the most attractive and beautiful out of all the women, and placed the royal crown on her head. King Ahasuerus held a great banquet for his new queen-” 

“Okay,” Jackson says, gently, maybe noticing the manic look in my eyes or the way my speech began to speed up as the story gained energy. “I get it. Esther was really hot, and she probably turned out to be royalty.” 

“Uh-huh,” I say. “But I think you might get struck down if you describe her as ‘hot’ again.” 

He snorts. “All I know is that you’re already royalty,” he says. “You’ve always been my princess.” 

I touch the tip of his nose with mine. “I know,” I say. 

“And you’ll always  _ be _ my princess,” he continues, kissing me slowly. “Royalty is just… in your blood.” 

“Mm-hmm,” I say, lifting my arms as he pulls my shirt over my head. Now I’m shirtless and braless on the balcony, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way his hands feel on my bare skin. 

His lips find my collarbone and he spends ample time there, fingers spread wide over my shoulder blades while he makes a line of wet kisses that trail to the round of my shoulder. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth moving against my skin. 

While he touches me, I feel as beautiful as he tells me I am. Every nerve in my body vibrates and begs for more, begs for everything.

“Take me to bed,” I whisper, arching my back so his face sits between my breasts.

He turns to either side and sucks the swells into his mouth, slowly and thoroughly, leaving behind red, swollen hickeys that circle my nipples. 

“Gladly,” he says, then stands and lifts me by the waist in one fell swoop. I wrap my legs tight around him and giggle uncontrollably, hanging onto his shoulders as he holds me with one arm and closes the slider with the other. 

When we get to our room, I strip to my underwear as he does the same, then direct him to sit on the side of the bed. 

“I haven’t gone down on you in a while,” I say, licking my lips and running my hands up his legs. The soft, curly hair on his dark skin weaves through my fingers and sends goosebumps up my spine, and I lean forward to kiss his knee. “Hasn’t it been too long since I put my mouth on you?” 

He nods, biting his lower lip as he sheds his boxers. Unsurprisingly, he already has an erection and it curves upward, but I manipulate it in the way I’ve learned so it points at me instead.

I pump the shaft a few times, using his pre-come and my saliva as lube. I drag my lips along its length and listen to him groan when I capture the head between them, swirling my tongue around the slit. 

“God, yes,” he moans, grabbing a fistful of my hair at the base of my skull.

I pull away from his penis to pay attention to his thighs, which I know are also ultra-sensitive. I bury my face between them, drag my fingers through the hair, and lick the soft insides. His dick twitches near my head, and I smile to myself while pressed against his hot skin. 

Taking a bold step, I bite down relatively hard and suck harder, then pull away with a loud, wet ‘pop.’ Already, a hickey and a bruise begin to blossom, left behind from what I’ve done. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, reaching down to trace the teeth marks, but I shove his hand away. “Do it again,” he says. 

“You like that?” I ask, sensually, and he nods. So, I move to the other thigh and give him a matching one.

He grunts when I bite down, because this time I do it harder. I lick the spot when I pull away and as I look up, I see his eyes are hungry to the point of desperation. 

Then, without fumbling, he takes his dick in one hand and directs it into my mouth. With a smile, I start bobbing my head and pumping my fist in the same rhythm, while using my other hand to roll and play with his balls, which tighten as the moments pass. 

His hips jerk forward and the tip hits the back of my throat, but I don’t gag. I’m not inexperienced anymore, even with his impressive size. Instead, I lengthen my neck and welcome him further, and he slides as far down my throat as I can take.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, and I look up for validation from between his legs. “That feels so fucking good, princess. Just like that. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking-” 

Without any further warning, he spurts down my throat - hot, lasting, and sporadic as he rides out his orgasm and pulls out halfway to empty the rest of his load on my tongue and lips. I kiss the head as it drains fluid, and he finger-combs my hair away from my face as I do. 

“You’re amazing,” he pants, thumbing away the excess semen around my mouth. “God, you’re so damn amazing.” 

I smile and climb onto the bed, lying flat onto my back as an invitation for him to get on top of me. He doesn’t waste time; he turns around and straddles my hips immediately, kissing his way down my body from my heartbeat to the pulse between my legs. 

I’m not sure if this bodily high is from lasting marijuana or simply the way I feel when he touches me. 

He puts his mouth between my thighs, but only to warm me up. He made me come that way this morning - that’s not to say he hasn’t done it multiple times in a day before, because he has - but that’s not the end destination tonight. Tonight, we want connection, synergy, catharsis - and that’s what we’ll get. 

When he pushes inside me, I feel every ridge and close my eyes to fully embrace it. I wrap my limbs tight around him, bury my face in his neck, and lose myself in the way his body grinds and undulates against my own. With our hips flush together and his breath in my ear, I dig my fingernails into his back and spread my thighs to welcome him deeper, as deep as possible. 

Tonight, I want to accept his body as a part of mine. I want the essence of him within me. 

I throw my head back and arch my neck, moaning to the rhythm of his hips as he continues to move. He isn’t gentle, but he isn’t rough, either. He makes sure I know who’s in control, and I hand myself over willingly. I want him to take me, make me his own, even more than I already am. I want him to know that I belong to him, forever. 

“I love you,” he pants, moving at a more rapid pace now. “April, I love you so much.” 

“I love you, too,” I say, kissing his shoulders and neck, everything I can reach. 

I wrap my arms tighter as the tension builds and we get closer, attempting to lift my hips to match pace. I do my best as his quick thrusts slow down and become more thorough, more even, calculating each movement while burying himself inside me. 

I press my knees into his sides while I come, and open my mouth in a soundless scream. He licks my throat while I unwravel, lapping up the sweat, and waits until I’m in the middle of my orgasm to have his own. I cling to his body while he empties inside me, bucking and jerking erratically as his body overtakes his conscious mind.

We lie together in spent bliss in the moments to follow, stroking each other’s sweaty skin and damp hair. The room smells like sex, but it doesn’t bother us as we rest so close, tangled in the love we made. 

Without getting dressed, Jackson pulls  _ The Book Thief _ from the shelf on the headboard and opens it to a page near the beginning. Without asking, because he already knows my answer, he starts reading. And of course, with my head on his chest and one arm strewn over his abdomen, I listen.

“It’s the leftover humans,” he begins. “It’s the survivors. They’re the ones I can’t stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but every now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling, among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.” 

I trail my fingers down his chest, light as feathers, and watch the chills rise as a reward. 

Jackson keeps reading. 

“Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white. She realized her mother had come back for her only when she felt the boniness of a hand on her shoulder. She was being dragged away. A warm scream filled her throat.” 

My eyes burn and my head grows heavy as I strain to hear him continue. He’s been reading for a long time, wide awake, as I fall asleep wrapped around his body.

“So many humans. So many colors. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.” 

I close my eyes. I can’t last any longer. 

When Jackson notices I’ve fallen away, he closes the book, turns off the light, and kisses my forehead. Before I drift completely off, he holds me tighter and makes my body a silent promise with his own. 

…

“Jackson offered to make dinner,” I say, walking downtown with Alex on the way to the apartment. “But I said I’d do it.” 

“Very domestic, A,” he says, hands shoved into his pockets even though it’s balmy outside. 

“Are you nervous?” I ask him, eyeing his body language. 

He looks at me, attentive. “What?” he says, then shakes his head. “No.”

I smirk to myself and decide not to press the issue. 

“He said he’d be home,” I say, pressing the button to the elevator after we get inside the building. “He was teaching today. But I think class got done around 3.”

“Cool.” 

We walk into the apartment, and right away I notice the silence. 

“Jackson?” I call, then set my purse down after slipping off my flats. “We’re here.”

I get nothing in response, so I check the counter for a note. I find one that tells me he went on a run and should be back soon. 

“He’s running,” I tell Alex, but find him distracted. 

“This place is fuckin’ huge,” he says, looking around while marveling at everything. “Look at this fuckin’ view, dude!”

I cross my arms, proud though it isn’t technically mine. “It’s nice, right?” I say.

“More than nice,” he says. “This guy must be loaded. How much money does he have, A? I didn’t think professors made that much.” 

“He has a doctorate,” I say. “And that’s none of your business, mister.” 

He snorts and keeps his eyes out the window, surveying the city in a way he’s never seen it.

When he notices the balcony, he nods toward it. “You guys fucked out there?” he asks.

“God, shut up,” I say, scowling. 

“That’s a yes,” he mumbles.

“No, we have not,” I hiss. “But not like it’s any of your business.”

“Whatever,” he says, then taps on the glass. “Against this, at least. Thanks for cleaning off your ass prints before I came over. Nice of you.”

“Fuck off!” I laugh, but get interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Jackson appears, dripping with sweat and wiping his forehead while pulling his earbuds out. When he looks up, he takes in both mine and Alex’s presence and straightens. 

“Oh,” he says, eyes flitting between us. “Hi. Hey, babe. Alex.” 

“Hi,” I say, walking over. “We just got here. Do you wanna go shower, and I can start on dinner?” 

I take his earbuds and twirl them around my finger, watching the beads of sweat roll down his temples. 

“I thought I was gonna make dinner,” he says, still a bit breathless.

“I want to,” I say, then lay a flat hand on his chest over the place where his heart still hammers. “And you need to take it easy, baby. I told you, it’s dangerous to run so hard. Slow down, okay? For me?” 

He half-smiles and pecks me on the lips. “Sure,” he says. “Alright, I’ll be back. I’ll be quick.” 

“Yuck,” Alex says, after Jackson is out of earshot. He says that with a smile in his eyes, though.

“Whatever,” I say, blushing. 

This is new. Jackson and I haven’t been able to express affection in front of anyone but strangers before, so the fact that Alex has a front row seat is a little thrilling. Being able to showcase our relationship is exciting. 

“I’m making ziti and chicken Caesar salad,” I say, halfway inside the fridge as I gather ingredients. “If you want to get off your lazy butt and help, that’d be great.” 

“Nah,” Alex says, sauntering over to the couch. “I think I’ll check out what kinda channels you guys got.” 

I roll my eyes lightly and get to work, eyes on the TV while Alex surfs through numerous different options. When Jackson comes out, I half expect Alex to act like a teenager and ignore his presence with the TV on, but he does the opposite. He turns it off and opens his body towards Jackson, nodding a greeting. 

“Hey, man,” he says. 

“Hey,” Jackson says, and I can tell he’s trying his best to be ‘cool.’ I can’t help but grin. He looks at me, eyebrows up, and asks, “Need any help, princess?” 

“No,” I say. “I’m good. You guys sit. I promise, I’m fine.” 

He shoots me a smile and takes my advice, going over to the couch to join Alex. I try not to listen in on their conversation, sensing the newness of it all, but I can’t help but shine with happiness in seeing my two favorite men in the same room together. I never thought this would happen in a million years. 

Alex is one part of my life, while Jackson is another. The fact that these two halves are meshing to create a whole is both comforting and strange at the same time. 

Once the salad is mixed and the ziti is in the oven, I walk to the couch with three glasses of wine. I poured myself a different one than what I gave them, but Jackson senses my eyes on his glass. 

“Here,” he says, beckoning me with a nod of his head. As one of his arms extends over the back of the couch, I fall into it and rest against his side. He brings the wine glass to my mouth and says, “Sip.”

I let it pass my lips and nod. “It’s good,” I say. “But I like mine better.” 

“Don’t look at me,” Alex says. “I’m not giving you any.” 

I scoff and roll my eyes. “I wasn’t asking,” I say, then take Jackson’s hand from where it was relaxing and hold it with one of mine. 

We talk about a handful of things while dinner is cooking. We don’t delve into personal matters, but do a good job at skimming the surface. It turns out, because of me, they already know a decent amount about each other. 

After dinner is over and we’re still sitting around the table, Alex says to Jackson, “So, I’m guessing you know she talks in her sleep.”

“I do not!” I insist, leaning forward. Jackson’s arm is around the back of my chair, a comforting reminder of his nearness. 

“Yeah, you do,” Alex says. “I used to be able to hear it through your damn door when I walked by. It’s that bad. I’m right, aren’t I, Jackson?”

I turn to him, mouth pinched. “Be careful,” I say. “Only one of us gives you you-know-what.” 

Alex cringes. “Dude, too far,” he says. 

But Jackson laughs along with me. “You do, actually,” he tells me. “But it’s cute.” 

“Yeah, ‘cute’ is a word for it,” Alex says, snickering. 

“What stuff do I say?” I ask, still in disbelief. 

“I can never understand it,” Jackson says. 

“So, pretty much like real life,” Alex adds. 

I roll my eyes. “I feel very ganged up on right now,” I joke. 

“Shouldn’t have invited me over, then,” Alex says, laughing. “But, yeah. Speaking of which, it’s getting kinda late and I have work in the morning. It sucks, but… yeah.” He stands up from his chair, and for a moment, Jackson and I simply watch him from where we sit. “This was cool. If it’s alright with you guys, I’d maybe wanna come over again. Like, soon. Even though you guys are freaking gross.” 

“Duh,” I say. “You can come over anytime.” 

“You’re completely welcome here,” Jackson says, then we both stand to walk him to the door. 

“Thanks for having me,” Alex says, a bit awkwardly with his shoulders hunched in the front entryway. He pulls me into a firm hug, pats my back, and says, “Love you, dude.” 

“Love you,” I reply, squeezing him. “Get home safe. Text when you get there.” 

“Yeah,” he says, then shakes Jackson’s hand. “Nice to like, formally meet you, man. And, uh, well… I guess I’ve been kinda wanting to say, you’re cool. April’s like… I don’t know. Don’t get a big head about this, A, but… she’s special to me. And the fact that you guys are like… as grossly perfect as you are, I don’t know, makes me feel good.” He moves his shoulders around, shaking the words off. “Anyway. I gotta go. Night, guys.” 

We wave him goodbye, then shut the door behind him. 

“That was nice,” I say, going back inside and heading towards the table. 

“It was,” Jackson agrees. “But babe, you don’t have to clean up. You cooked. Let me.”

“No, I’ll help,” I say. “I don’t mind. I like working with you.” 

He obliges, and we turn on the radio while gathering dishes and dirty silverware. Funny enough, the second song that plays is ‘Songbird,’ and we make eye contact during the first notes. 

“Your song,” I say, pausing with a few plates in my arms. 

He sets down the cloth napkins he was holding. “Come here,” he says, reaching for me. 

“What?” I say, forehead creased with confusion.

“Set those down,” he says. “Dance with me.”

I glow from inside out as I set the plates in a haphazard pile and cross the room to him. He takes my waist in his hands, I loop my arms around his shoulders, and we sway in the dimly-lit kitchen to his favorite song.

…

A few weeks later, I’m at the townhouse with Alex, on the couch eating ice cream while  _ South Park _ is on TV. Today, Jackson is teaching and I was too moody to stay home by myself. I wanted company, but now that I have company, all I want is to be alone. I’m snippy, tired, and my entire body aches. 

“I hate this show,” I grumble, the annoying, tinny voices digging into my ears. 

“My house, my show,” Alex says. 

I roll my eyes angrily and dig my spoon into the ice cream to take a big bite.

“And that’s mine, too,” he says. “So, quit hogging it.”

“You picked this god-awful show, so it’s what you deserve,” I say, protecting the tub. “No way are you touching this.” 

He squints at me. “Since when do you even like Superman flavor?” he asks. “You hate that shit. You’re just eating it to bug me.” 

“No, I had a craving,” I say, taking another huge bite that’s mostly yellow. 

“First, it was pickles. Then, peanuts, which I had to drag you away from since you’d literally fucking  _ kill yourself  _ if you ate them. Then, garbanzo beans. Now, Superman ice cream? You’re fuckin’ psycho, dude. What’s going on with you?” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “You tell me.” 

He gives me a look that I ignore while continuing to shovel ice cream in my face. 

I tune out the TV show and continue to eat out of the tub until my stomach begins to churn. I set it off to the side and swallow hard, tasting the familiar flavor of vomit in my throat.

“Shit,” I say, closing my eyes in attempts to ward it off. Lately, I’ve been throwing up at least once a day and I’m not sure why. I’ve chalked it up to the flu, though I haven’t experienced any other symptoms. 

“Go to the bathroom, barfy,” Alex says. 

“I’m fine,” I say, reclining stiffly. 

But I’m not. Within moments, I fly off the couch and lurch towards the bathroom, making it just in time for vomit to spew everywhere around the toilet, in the toilet, and onto the surrounding tiles of the floor. 

“Cleanup in aisle 12,” Alex says, voice appearing behind me. “What’d I tell you. Go to the bathroom.” 

“Thanks for the sympathy,” I growl. 

He scoffs. “I’d have sympathy for you if you’d get your head out of your ass,” he says. 

I glare at him while mopping up what I did. “What are you talking about?” I ask.

He looks at me like it’s so obvious and I should know. “Come on, dude. Don’t be a fuckwad.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” I shriek.

He lays his palms flat, like he just proved a point. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re pissy as hell lately, biting my head off. You never stop complaining that your body hurts, like all the time. You’re constantly tired. You barf every single day and you’re not sick. You wanna eat weird ass foods. A, come on. Face it. You’re knocked up.” 

My jaw drops, along with the paper towel I’d been holding. 

“Shut up,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t know anything about… shut up.” 

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m the oldest of like, a billion kids. I saw my mom pregnant about a hundred times. I know what it looks like, and it looks like you. So, either you continue to live in denial and suffer, or you come with me to CVS and we get a pregnancy test that’ll prove it.” 

Needless to say, I end up going with him. Not happily, though. Begrudgingly. 

“I still think you’re wrong,” I say, clutching the plastic bag full of three pregnancy tests close to my chest. 

“Sure,” he says, walking beside me on the way home.

“I still think you’re wrong,” I say again, peeing on a stick in the bathroom at the townhouse while he stands outside the door. 

“Whatever,” he says. “We’re gonna find out in like, two minutes, so stop running your mouth.” 

I come out and join him in the hall while the tests calibrate on the sink. After his iPhone alarm goes off, signaling the allotted time has passed, we shoot each other a loaded glance. 

“I can’t do it,” I say. “I can’t. You look.” 

“You sure?” he asks.

I wave him in and say, “I can’t.”

“Alright,” he says, then disappears for a moment before calling out, “What do two dark, straight lines mean?” 

I cover my face with my hands and take a deep breath. “Shit,” I murmur, staring at the carpet under my feet. 

Alex comes out with the sticks in one hand, carefully avoiding the strips I peed on. 

“What does it mean?” he asks again. 

I uncover my face and look into his with a sigh. 

“It means,” I say. “I’m pregnant.” 

…

I practice how to tell Jackson the whole way home. I ride the bus instead of the train, knowing it’ll take longer, and walk around the block once before going inside the apartment building. 

On the elevator ride up, I’m sweating and my mouth is dry. Even though I’ve spent the whole trip trying to find the words, I still have none. 

Do I preface it with something or just lay it out there? 

How will he react? Will he be happy, or will this have come at such an inopportune time that he’ll have to fake joy in order to make me comfortable? 

I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this will turn out. But there’s no way to know other than to get it over with and find out.

I open the door to find the apartment silent. 

“Jackson?” I call, and twine my fingers together to keep them from trembling. “Jackson, where are you? I’m home. I… I need to talk to you about something.” 

I see his shoes by the door - the ones he wears running and otherwise, along with his bag - so he has to be home. I come to the conclusion that maybe he’s taking a nap, which buys me a little more time. 

I go into the kitchen in search of something to eat to calm my nerves, and come across a sight that makes me stumble backwards, eyes open wide and mouth wider. 

It’s Jackson. Collapsed and sprawled across the kitchen floor on his back, cranberry juice spilled and spread like blood from a broken glass shattered at his side. 


	18. Chapter 18

**APRIL**

What was the last thing I said to him? 

When was the last time I spoke his name, if just conversationally? 

Because I screamed it, as he lie there on the cold kitchen floor. I knelt next to his collapsed body and pressed my hands flat on his chest, bending at the waist to put my ear by his mouth. I heard breathing, which gave me hope. It gave me the energy to shout for help as loud as I could; to shake him, try and rouse him like this was something I could wake him from. 

When I finally came to my senses and realized my efforts weren’t working, I dialed 911. I rode in the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital and held his hand, fingers slack in mine. 

Now, we’re in a hospital room. It’s congenial, but cold. I still have his hand. 

I stroke his knuckles and wait for the world to correct itself. This can’t be happening. It must be a dream. Things like this don’t happen to people like us. 

A strong, healthy man like Jackson doesn’t experience an aneurysm that leads to severe bleeding in the brain, which resulted in the coma he’s now in. It simply can’t be. He must be sleeping. I won’t accept anything else. 

It was a resident who told me, dressed in lighter scrubs than someone who actually knows what they’re talking about. I don’t remember her name, but she looked at me like I was a child, patronizing. We might’ve been around the same age. I wanted to hit her. 

Nothing she said made sense. Jackson will be fine. He’ll wake up. He’ll wake up, and my face will be the first thing he sees. Just like every morning, just like always.

I squeeze his fingers and rest one arm on the bed next to him. 

“Wake up,” I whisper, then lift his hand to kiss it. “Jackson, wake up.” 

He doesn’t move. Not even so much as the flutter of an eyelash. His body is completely still, save for the subtle rise and fall of his broad chest. The broad chest that I’ve used as a pillow so many nights, where I rest my head when we hug, where I brace my hands when my thighs are spread wide over his. Everything I love is inside this chest, beating. Living. Breathing. 

He’ll come back to me. 

With my free hand, I spread my fingers over my stomach. My stomach that, much like his chest, holds life. 

I look at Jackson’s serene face and wet my lips, preparing to say it aloud, what I never got the chance to tell him. But I close my mouth before any sound escapes. Now isn’t the right time. I’ll tell him when he wakes up. 

I fall asleep with the lower half of my body in an armchair and the upper half on the bed with Jackson, awoken some time later by the sound of someone entering the room. I sit up straight, disoriented, but I don’t let go of his hand. I don’t plan on doing that anytime soon. Letting go means drifting. 

“Hi,” the doctor says, and I don’t recognize him. It’s not the resident from before; this one is in darker scrubs and he’s older. “I’m Dr. Whitehall. I’ve just been assigned to Mr. Avery’s case. You must be his… daughter?” 

My insides toil with rage. I clench Jackson’s hand tighter and my spine transforms into a tense metal rod as I stare down the man across from me. 

“I’m his girlfriend,” I say, using both of my hands to hold his now. “And his only living family.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, visibly disconcerted. “My apologies.” 

I don’t offer forgiveness. 

“Were you made aware of the severity of his brain trauma?” Dr. Whitehall asks. 

I don’t answer. I can’t muster words. All I can bear to do is continue to stare daggers into him, this unassuming man who has done no harm. But there’s nowhere else to direct my rage, so he’s claimed the most unlucky of roles. 

He clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, it looks as if his brain was under severe stress,” he says. “Which could have been caused by a number of things. Physical exertion, heightened emotions, or simply bad timing. The aneurysm was waiting; there’s no telling when it planned on bursting.”

I clench my jaw and ask the only question that matters. 

“When will he wake up?”

Dr. Whitehall’s eyes flit somberly to Jackson, resting there for a long while. I know what he’s thinking, what he wants to say, and I also know that he’s wrong. I shouldn’t have asked. Doctors don’t know everything, yet they always think they do.

“There’s heavy bleeding in his brain,” he says. “Which has caused it to swell dramatically. The injured side is compressed, which makes it nearly impossible to perform surgery without seriously harming the area and those surrounding.” He blinks slowly, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s not likely he will-” 

“I’d like you to leave now,” I say, without breaking eye contact. “I want time alone with him. We need… let us be alone. I don’t want you here anymore.” 

I turn and close off my body, taking Jackson’s arm and hugging it close to my chest. Once Dr. Whitehall slinks out of the room, I climb onto the bed and mold my body against Jackson’s in the way we’re both so used to. 

“He didn’t mean it,” I say, manipulating his arm to rest around my shoulders. 

His body is slack, which is not a familiar feeling. Usually, he’s actively holding me, protecting me, petting my skin in some way. But now, he only lies still. No movement. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I say, rubbing his chest over the hospital gown. I hate the way it feels. I want to touch him - skin on skin - but that isn’t possible. “Not all doctors are as smart as you, you know.” 

I say the last part with a smile on my lips, but tears in my eyes.

…

Days pass without movement from Jackson. Orderlies come in to wash him up, but after the first day I don’t let them touch him. I do what needs to be done and only allow help with what I’m not capable of. 

I spend every waking moment at his side, making sure he’s comfortable and aware of my presence. I read out loud a lot. I go to the cafeteria for food and bring it back to eat it alongside him; I’m never gone for more than ten minutes at a time. 

But I can’t deny the fact that my hair is greasy and my body is past the point of unclean. I need to go home to shower and change, but I refuse to leave him alone. The hospital staff isn’t enough. They don’t take care of him like I do. 

Finally giving in, I dig into my purse and find my phone that’s been buzzing non-stop since coming here. I don’t bother counting the amount of missed calls from Alex. Instead, I simply dial his number.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he spits, not letting the first ring finish. 

“I need you to come to the hospital,” I say, without sugarcoating. 

“Wait, what?” he says. “Are you okay? What happened?” 

“It’s not me,” I say. “Just come to Northwestern Memorial. I’ll explain everything when you get here. We’re on the 15th floor. Give them Jackson’s name, and the front desk will tell you where to go.” 

I don’t allow time for questions or rebuttals before hanging up. I don’t wait long before he arrives, either, storming down the hall - voice loud and footsteps louder. 

“April,” he says, bursting inside the room. 

“Shhh,” I say, frowning. “Lower your voice.” 

He glances over my shoulder at Jackson, to whom I just gave a fresh sponge bath this morning. I shaved his face, too - painstakingly - and he looks handsome, as always. 

“What happened?” Alex asks. “Sorry. I didn’t know he was sleeping.” 

“I need to go home and change,” I say, gripping my purse tightly with two hands. “I’ll be back in a little while. I won’t be long. Can you please stay with him?” 

Alex shoots me a confused and incredulous expression.

“I’m not letting you walk out of this room ‘til you tell me what the fuck’s happening,” he says. “What’s wrong with Avery?”

“He’s fine,” I say. “He’s recovering.” 

Alex frowns and looks around the room, eyes darting to the heart monitor and other various medical equipment. 

“Tell me the truth,” he says, taking a step back to block the door. “April, I’m not kidding. You’re not gonna gloss over this. Tell me what happened, or I won’t stay.” 

His voice is firm and low in a way I almost never hear it. My stomach twists in response, and I wind my arms around my torso. Suddenly, the memory of the baby comes back and I feel instantly guilty for allowing it to slip my mind.

“He’ll be fine,” I insist.

“What happened?” 

I let a short gust of air from my nose. “An aneurysm burst inside his brain,” I say. “I found him collapsed on the kitchen floor a few days ago. He’s coming back to the surface, it just takes time. He needs time, that’s all. And he needs someone next to him. Someone he knows. I’m going to go to the house, get cleaned up, and bring back a few of his things. I won’t take long.”  

I can’t read the look on Alex’s face, and it scares me. 

“Okay?” I say. “Can I go now? Will you let me go?”

He doesn’t respond, but he steps out of the doorway all the same, and that’s all I need.

…

When I get to the apartment, the air is cold and stagnant. I can’t clearly remember how many days it’s been vacant, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I walk through the house doing menial chores - I water Liesel, open the windows, and eat something.

As I’m standing in the kitchen, the bottom of my bare foot sticks in something. When I look down, I see the widespread cranberry juice stain that’s dried and crusty now, and put down my snack. I spend a while on my hands and knees, obsessively scrubbing the floor to make sure there’s no trace left. 

In the shower, I stand under the powerful jet and swipe hair out of my face. I close my eyes and let the water run over my features - across the bridge of my nose, my lips, dripping in a stream from my chin down the plane of my chest. I take my time with washing my hair, scrubbing deep to the roots, and loofah my body with Jackson’s favorite body wash. He loves the way it smells. Maybe it’ll help him wake up. 

When I get out, I wrap myself in his towel instead of mine. It’s a bit bigger and it smells like his aftershave when I press it to my nose, which reminds me that I should grab his shaving supplies. What I used at the hospital was subpar at best, and when he wakes up he’ll want his own. 

But I pack clothes first. His favorite jeans and button-ups - no t-shirts. He doesn’t like to leave the house in those. A few pairs of shoes, so he’ll have choices. Deodorant, socks, underwear. After getting dressed myself, I painstakingly put everything into a duffel bag and leave it open on the bed while I return to the bathroom to retrieve the rest of his toiletries. 

It’s strange, opening his door of the medicine cabinet. We don’t have designated territories, per se, but his stuff stays on the right-hand side and mine on the left. I never look inside because I have no use for men’s razors, cologne, and other things of the sort. 

I push things around in search of the aftershave he likes. His space is very organized, but full of items I don’t recognize and wouldn’t in a million years. 

“Where do you put it…” I mutter, under my breath.

I look at labels as I leaf through, then come across something that sticks out. It doesn’t have a sleek design with block print on the front; there’s no label, there’s no scent. It’s a small box coated in velvet with a tiny golden hinge. 

I stare for a moment and recoil, pulling back my hand like I’ve burnt it. I part my lips in a silent gasp, baffled, and wonder if this little item could be what I think it is. 

I shouldn’t open it. I should wait. It was hidden for a reason; I wasn’t supposed to see it - not yet. 

But I can’t move. I stay standing in front of the medicine cabinet, shock painted over my features, feet cemented to the floor. 

I picture Jackson lying still at the hospital, unmoving, unseeing, unreacting. 

Maybe I was meant to find this. Maybe this will bring him back.

Reaching forward, I hold the box with two hands. It’s light, I don’t need to, but it’s precious and the last thing I want is to drop it. Hovering over the counter, I open it slowly and lose my breath when the lid comes up. 

Inside, on a velvet pillow, sits a ring. The most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen, adorned with sparkling diamonds on a dainty golden band. The jewel is big, but the furthest thing from ostentatious. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life; nothing as beautiful, nothing as special. 

Something else catches my eye, too. A tiny piece of paper, cut meticulously. On it, in Jackson’s neat handwriting, reads:  _ Gift #22.  _

…

As I walk back into the hospital room, the weight of the ring is heavy on my finger. Heavier than the duffel bag over my shoulder, albeit not heavier than my heart. 

Alex sits in the armchair I vacated. He doesn’t hear me come in. Instead, he’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, face in his open palms. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was praying. 

But I don’t want him, don’t need him anymore. What I crave most right now is to be alone with Jackson. 

“Thanks,” I say, and my voice makes Alex jump. 

He looks over his shoulder with worried eyes, hooded with emotion. His eyes tell me he knows everything and wants to say what I refuse to hear.

“You can leave now,” I say, setting the bag on the couch by the wall. 

“A,” he says, softly, like I might shatter. 

“No,” I say. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I took so long.” 

He stands, eyebrows creased with concern. He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a deep breath, preparing to speak. 

“Really, Alex,” I say, cutting him off with a firmer tone. “I’d like it if you left now. I want to be alone with him.” 

He closes his mouth, erases the words from the air hanging between us. 

“Alright,” he says, substituting his thoughts for something more acceptable. “Call if you need anything.” 

“I will.” 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “You know, to check on…” 

I turn my back and focus on Jackson only. Alex leaves the room silently, and I slip out of my shoes like he was never here. I don’t bid him goodbye, I don’t turn around. The only person I see now is Jackson.

I climb onto the bed, something I’ve made a habit of doing when I sleep. I think it comforts him, having me close. His energy seems to be more at ease when I am. And as for me, there’s no questioning how grounded it makes me feel. If I had a choice in never leaving the bed, I wouldn’t. 

“Jackson,” I whisper, tucking my face into his neck. 

I stroke his opposite arm, dragging my fingernails lightly across the surface of his skin, in the way he loves. I wish he’d turn his head to the side, kiss my hairline, pull me closer, call me ‘princess.’ But none of those things happen. 

“Yes, Jackson,” I say, closing my eyes. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Tears slowly roll down my face, aimlessly, without a place to go. They disappear over the slope of my jaw and slip to my neck before I wipe them away with the back of my hand. 

“You said you wanted to wait until we were married to have a baby,” I continue, working up the gumption to say what’s been on the forefront of my mind for days. I laugh a bit, running the material of his gown between my thumb and first finger. Nothing’s funny. “It didn’t quite work out that way. Baby, I’m pregnant.”

In a perfect world, he would take a giant breath, chest expanding, and open his eyes with shock - my words having brought him back from darkness. He would squeeze me tighter, kiss me senseless, lift up my shirt and obsess over my still-flat belly.

But none of those things happen, either. The father of my growing child stays lying still, steady as the heart monitor beside him. The hand of his that I set on my shoulder slips off, without agency, and hits the bed. 

I sit up a bit to look at his face. With a furrowed brow, I cup his cheek and caress his facial hair, begging for him to come back. I lean forward and kiss his plush, slack lips, but get nothing in return. 

“Did you hear me?” I ask, running my hand down his neck to hold the side. “I said, I’m pregnant. I’m going to have your baby, Jackson. We’re having a baby.” 

His eyelids don’t move. His lips don’t twitch. His forehead doesn’t crease. He lies there, breathing. Just breathing. Only breathing. 

“Jackson, we’re having a baby,” I repeat, throat clogging. It feels like there’s a ball inside; I can’t breathe around it. “You have to wake up. We’re going to have a baby.” 

I collapse against him again, holding tight as I cry. I press my eyes shut and sputter, spit and tears suffocating my features. I want nothing more than for him to comfort me, wipe the moisture away, tell me everything will be alright. But he makes no moves to nurture me, no moves at all. 

“I can’t do it by myself,” I whimper. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”

I turn my head to press my face into his armpit, hidden from the world. 

“Please, don’t go.” 

…

Time loses all meaning. I stop listening to what the doctor says, and he stops trying to get through to me. I let the staff physically take care of Jackson in the ways I can’t, and life support keeps him breathing. 

I wash his body, I shave his face, I trim his fingernails. I read to him, I sing, I simply exist alongside him. 

We sleep together like always. Nothing has changed there. Except now, I always wake up first.

“When you wake up,” I say one morning, sitting cross-legged with his hand in my lap. “Will you come to the doctor’s with me?” 

I touch his skin, stare at his fingers. They’re dry, so I grab lotion from the table beside his bed and massage it into his skin. 

“Not this hospital,” I say, thumbs moving in circles. “I don’t want to step foot inside this one ever again. A different one, to see how the baby’s doing.” 

Silence. Silence, of course. 

“I don’t think I’ll be so nervous if you’re there,” I say, then smile softly. “Won’t it be cool when we can feel the baby kick?” 

His face remains expressionless, beautiful in its placidity. 

“I honestly never thought I’d have a baby this young,” I say, smoothing his fingers out over my thigh. “I used to be scared I couldn’t do it, you know. Be a mother. Raise a child. But since we’re doing it together, I’m not scared.” 

The lie is bitter on my tongue, but I allow it to stay. 

“Hey.” 

I flinch with surprise and look over my shoulder to see Alex standing in the doorway with a demure bouquet of flowers. He lingers, looking uncertain, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“Hi,” I say, without letting go of Jackson’s hand. 

“Brought these,” he says, lifting the bouquet a bit. 

“Thanks,” I say. “They’re pretty.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t know if flowers were okay or not. Seemed girly. But I figured a teddy bear was worse. And a balloon seemed wrong. So…” 

“The flowers are nice,” I say. “Maybe they’d like if you set them by the window.” 

He crosses the room and does just that, lying the bouquet on its side. He glances outside for a moment before turning around, shoulders hunched, straining for the right words. 

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

I shrug. 

“How about him?” he follows up. He lingers at the end of Jackson’s bed, eyes roaming about the room, too skittish to look at the resting body for long. 

“He’s fine,” I say, tickling Jackson’s arm with my left hand. 

The ring catches Alex’s eye, though I hadn’t meant for it to. It was a silly thought, though, that he wouldn’t notice. The jewels are large and sparkly, sitting brand new on my usually bare and unassuming finger. 

“What’s that?” he asks, eyebrows up. 

I have the urge to pull my hand back and hide it, but I fight the instinct. “He proposed,” I say simply, voice clear. 

“When?” Alex asks. 

My throat dries up and I run my tongue over my top teeth. “We’re going to be married,” I say, dodging the question entirely. 

Alex doesn’t push, and for that I’m grateful. All he does is sit in the armchair next to the bed, placing me in the middle of the two most important men in my life. 

“Have you been home again?” he asks. 

I shake my head. “I need to be here when he wakes up,” I say. “I can’t leave. He’ll be up any day now.” 

Alex is quiet. But I’ve grown used to quiet, so it doesn’t bother me. He looks down and picks at his fingernails, creating a small, repetitive sound in the room that digs into my ears and roots itself there. 

“Can you stop?” I ask, looking at him pointedly. 

He stops. 

We don’t speak for a while. I don’t ask him to leave, but it must be clear I don’t want him here. I’ve turned completely towards Jackson, the front of my body pressed against his side, my back facing Alex. I stroke my fiance’s skin and situate his limbs, begging, pleading silently for him to open his eyes and prove everyone wrong. 

No one has said it, but it’s not difficult to figure out what they’re thinking. They pity me because of the hope I have, but they’re wrong to do so. Jackson has overcome so much. He will come out of this, too. 

I don’t know how I’ll exist if he doesn’t, so I refuse to entertain the thought. 

“April,” Alex says. “What happens now?” 

I nestle my cheek against Jackson’s shoulder. “Dinner is in a little while,” I say. “The menu is-”

“Not like that,” he replies, sternly. “You know what I mean.” 

I blink at the far wall, still faced away from him. “No, I don’t,” I state simply. 

“April, don’t be stubborn,” he says. 

“No,” I say, finally flipping around to make eye contact. “I will be stubborn. I will fight for him, because no one else is. What am I supposed to do, just give up?” 

“You’re fighting for someone who has no fight left!” Alex says, blowing up. 

His words are a smack to the face. I feel them on the surface of my skin, spreading like a disease and soaking in. Permeating. Infecting.

“How can you say that?” I ask, trembling. I keep my voice low so not to disturb Jackson. “You don’t know anything about what he’s been through. Or what he’s going through right now. You have no grounds to make a statement like that.” 

“I looked up what you told me,” he says. “He’s been in a coma for almost two weeks, April. Do you know how low his odds are of waking up? And if he does, he’ll be a vegetable. Are you prepared to take care of a grown man for the rest of your life?” 

“Yes!” I argue, still holding tight to Jackson’s hand - my anchor to him, his anchor to the earth. “Because I love him. And you’re supposed to do anything for the people you love. And if you loved me, you’d support me in keeping him alive. Why are you so desperate to kill him?”

“What you’re doing is selfish,” Alex says, standing. “You can’t see past your own nose. Think about him. Would he want this? Would he want to be trapped inside this body with minimal brain activity? Look at him, April. Fucking look at him.” 

I won’t. I don’t take my eyes off Alex, who’s now standing and hovering above me. 

“You don’t know this situation better than I do,” I say. “I love him. He’s mine. You won’t persuade me into making a decision that’s wrong.”

He presses his lips together and looks between the two of us - me, with the burning face and bared teeth and Jackson, completely unaware. 

“April-” 

“No,” I say, and turn back around to cover Jackson’s body with my own, a human shield, as if Alex is coming at him with a weapon. “Leave.” 

I don’t watch him go, but as his footsteps fade away, I bury my face in the crook of Jackson’s shoulder and begin to sob. Loud, unabashed, earth-shattering sobs that scratch my throat and leave me empty and spent. 

But I make him a promise. 

“I won’t let them take you from me,” I say, kissing his skin, lips slipping against my own tears. “I won’t.” 

…

I dream frequently, because I sleep a lot. I run out of things to do while awake, and find I’m most at peace with my eyes closed. In that respect, I have more in common with Jackson than I expected.

But during one night in particular, the dreams that come - vivid and disturbing - are the complete opposite of soothing. 

I dream about my father, backing me into a corner and slamming the paddle against my spine again and again. 

I’m trapped.

I dream about my childhood home in general, being told what to do every hour of the day. Being told what to wear, how to speak, how to act, how to pray. Being told how and what to think, how to live. 

I’m trapped. 

I dream about Owen, pinning me down with his substantial weight. I dream about his catlike smile, forceful fingers, and the impact of my fists against the sides of his skull. My fists soon turn into my father’s paddle, but Owen is undeterred. No matter how many times I hit him, he doesn’t let up. 

I’m trapped. 

I dream about Jackson as a child, in a small bed with his grandfather. I dream about the locked door that kept them inside, kept their secrets under wraps. I dream about his unheard voice, pleading for mercy. I dream about the fact that it never came. 

He’s trapped. 

I wake up sweating, out of breath, and disoriented - seeking comfort.

“Baby,” I say, grappling for him. 

Usually, when I wake up from a nightmare, he wakes up, too. He has the ability to sense my discomfort from even the smallest hints. 

“Baby, I had a nightmare,” I murmur, still foggy with sleep. 

He doesn’t move. It takes me a moment before I remember he won’t adjust, wrap his arms around me, kiss my head and tell me everything's just fine. That he’s right here. 

He’s far away, though physically close. I won’t be hearing any of that. He won’t move, won’t speak, won’t wake up. 

He’s trapped.

…

I’m afraid to talk to God because we haven’t spoken in so long. 

A handful of days pass, but I barely notice. The hours slip through my fingers, the minutes drip to the floor. I try not to take my eyes away from Jackson’s face. I take his glasses off, hoping he’ll be more comfortable without their weight and pressure. 

With every exhale, he slips further. With every inhale, I allow it. 

In the dead of night, I take his hand and hold it tight, pressing his palm to the middle of my chest. I close my eyes and think of everything I love about him, and everything I’d yet to learn. There’s so much I don’t know. What age did he learn to ride a bike? What was his favorite vacation? Who was his worst college roommate? 

I wanted to spend every morning with him, waking up at his side, blinking into his alert face. He was always up first, always crisp. His eyes, the eyes I haven’t seen in weeks, were so crystalline. He always had a smile waiting for me, first thing. 

“Put me in his place,” I whisper, opening the communication between me and my higher power for the first time since I left my childhood home. “I don’t want to be here without him.” 

As soon as the words leave my mouth, bile rises in my throat and reminds me of the life inside me fighting to live. Budding, sprouting, rooting itself in my womb. What hurts more than anything else is that Jackson is completely unaware of our little light.

“I’m having your baby,” I tell him. I haven’t said it aloud since I told him for the first time. “Please, hear me. Please, wake up.” 

I start to cry softly. 

“Jackson, I’m pregnant,” I say, holding his arm tighter. 

His face remains unchanging, ever the same, as it has for days and days. 

I begin to sob. Hard, echoing, empty sobs, because I know.

I know I’ll walk out of this hospital alone. 

...

The choice to end someone’s life should never be placed upon another’s shoulders, but it is. Death is, at its core, a fact of life. 

I can’t let him go yet, but I know that one day soon, I will have to. 

But not today. Today, I pull out  _ The Book Thief _ . 

“Can I read to you for a while?” I ask Jackson, touching his smooth face. I shaved him just this morning, and I love the way his skin feels. “I don’t remember where we left off. I’ll just do what you do - just open to a random page.” 

I flip to the middle and look at the page before the one that says ‘Part Seven,’ and begin.

“Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.” 

My forehead crinkles and my throat clogs, but I read on. 

“I took them all away, and if ever there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to gray to the color of rain. Even the clouds were trying to get away.”

I bite my top lip and run my teeth over it, shocked present by darts of pain. 

“Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye. They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.”

I close the book harshly, and the front and back covers slam together with a dull thud. 

“I don’t feel like reading anymore,” I say, quietly, mostly for myself. 

I spend time looking at the the book, thinking of all the things I could say. I’ve exhausted my options of bait - I’m not stupid. I know there’s nothing in my repertoire that could surface him.

He’s slowly sinking - past the foamy waves and now submerged under the deep blue. 

I miss his eyes, his smile, his hands. I miss the way he held me, his laugh, his voice in general. 

I miss him as he lies right beside me. 

“I shouldn’t have to let you go,” I say, voice watery. “Why did this happen? What did I do to deserve this?” 

I look towards the ceiling, assumedly directing my next statement at God Himself.

“Why are you taking him away? The one good thing I ever had? Do you really hate me that much?” I squelch. 

Much in the style of Jackson, I get no answer from Him, either. 

…

I speak with the doctors coherently for the first time since arriving. We make a plan. We set a day. I sign papers. 

With the swoop of a pen, I end Jackson’s life. 

This way, I’m aware the last night is, in fact, the last. And I spend it just like any other, cocooned around him, keeping him warm. It’s been especially easy for him to get cold, but I make sure that does not happen tonight. 

“You gave me everything,” I whisper, holding him. “You really did.” 

I spend a while simply lying there, eyes open, cherishing his beating heart beneath my ear. It’s not a feeling I’ll experience much longer, not one I can ever go back to. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though he knows. 

My eyes burn as I think about our baby. Whether it’s a boy or girl, I picture the curls. I picture the smile. I imagine how smart they’ll be. 

“I’ll make sure they know you,” I promise him. “They’ll always know you.” I pause. “You would’ve made a wonderful father.”

I let a thick pocket of silence pass. I lock the sound of his breathing in a small compartment inside my brain and shut it there, storing it, saving it. I tuck away how his hands feel; I remember the sturdy expanse of his chest. I count the beats of his heart until the numbers weave together and create a lace hammock of exhaustion. 

“I won’t forget you,” I say. “Or anything you taught me.”

I’m fully aware that I am resigning. 

But this is a fight I can no longer sanction. The odds are stacked against him and the battle is far from even. 

Life is strong, but death is resilient. 

Life is fleeting. 

Death watches and waits. 

I curl against Jackson’s side and remove his glasses for the final time. I don’t sleep that night. Instead, I cradle him, keep him safe, and grant him permission to leave.

…

Alex stands against the wall as it happens. I hadn’t specifically asked him to be here, but I told him what was going to happen and didn’t decline his offer to come. The absence of refusal was a request in itself. 

The machines turn off slowly, not all at once. The doctors warned me how this would go and guided me through the process, but nothing prepared me for the struggled sounds his lungs make when the ventilator is removed. Nothing prepared me for the rattle of his chest, or the twitching of his limbs. 

“It’s just a reaction,” someone assures me, though I can’t be sure who speaks. 

I ignore everyone in the room and climb onto the bed with my fiance. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head against his sunken chest, the chest that once held the heartbeat I no longer hear. 

My professor, the love of my life, the one who lit up my world, is gone. 

Suddenly, the sound of screaming fills the room. An unbroken wail, the pure embodiment of a shattered heart. It takes a few long, debilitating moments to realize the sound is coming from me. 


	19. Chapter 19

**APRIL**

Sunshine has never been so mocking. 

I always used to think the floor-to-ceiling windows in the apartment were beautiful, showcasing a breathtaking view of the city. But now, as summer sun streams in, I hate them. 

“April,” Alex says, but his voice is distant, sounding from the recesses of my mind. 

I need to buy curtains. I can’t stand this brightness. 

Jackson died three days ago. His body lies in the funeral home now, waiting for the ceremony. I’ve been lying in the apartment, waiting for some freak accident to take me, too. Maybe I’ll choke on the food Alex forces me to eat. Maybe I’ll drown in the shower. Maybe, one of these days, I’ll simply forget how to breathe. 

It’s not that I want to die, but I want to be with him.

I can’t think clearly without him. I’ve been walking through fog during days that stretch for years. Each hour trudges by, dragging its feet. I stare at the clock and watch the second hand lose its breath. Nothing behaves as it should. 

“April,” I hear again, and snap back to reality.

I blink slowly at Alex, who’s sitting across from me on the couch. He has a notebook on his lap, pen in hand. If I’m being honest, I have no idea what he could be writing. 

“Yeah,” I mutter, pressing my dry lips together. 

Jackson would always hand me Chapstick when my lips got like this. If we were in bed, he’d put it on for me. He always took care of me like that, in small ways and big. Now, it’s up to me and me alone. And I not only have to take care of myself, but my budding baby, too. 

How can I be expected to do both? How can I keep two people alive when the most important person has died?

“We should pick a couple songs.” 

I blink again, harder this time. “Just turn the radio on,” I mutter. “I can’t choose a playlist right now.”

He lets out a small sigh. He’s frustrated, but won’t show it. I can read him like a book. I haven’t made life easy over the past few days, though not purposefully. I’m not sure what plane of existence I’m on, but it’s not the one where he is. We don’t match up or see eye-to-eye. It’s been nearly impossible to communicate. 

I lost my heart and Alex has been trying to shove it back inside me through the skin. I don’t have the conscience to tell him it doesn’t work like that.

“No, for the funeral,” he says. “For Jackson’s funeral. Songs.” 

“Jackson’s funeral?” I say, crinkling my eyebrows.

“Yes,” he says, slowly, the pen tip pressed to the paper. “There are certain things we - you - need to decide. Songs, flower arrangements, speakers, the works. I know it’s hard, but I need you to focus. Concentrate on me.”

I lift my eyes and tread water inside his gaze. It’s hard to stay in one place when I’m floating aimlessly about the room. 

“What were his favorite songs?” he asks.

My eyelids sink and I drift again. 

“April, what music did he like to listen to?” 

I pick at a thread on my pajama pants. They’re the Tweety Bird ones Alex always used to make fun of; he brought them from the townhouse. They were leftovers. I’m not sure why he thought I wouldn’t have clothes here. 

“He could never pick,” I say, and even I hear how lost I sound. “I used to ask him, but… he didn’t have an answer for a long time.” 

“But he did eventually have an answer.” 

My eyes settle on Alex. “What?”

“An answer,” he says, slowly. “Jackson did have a favorite song; at least, that’s what you made it sound like. Did he ever give you one?”

“Yeah,” I say, still picking at the thread. 

He poises the pen to write. “What was it? Maybe we can get someone to sing it.” 

I frown and shake my head sternly. “He wouldn’t want that,” I say. “Just play it. Play it, like on the radio. Like we heard it in the kitchen, when we danced.” 

The memory comes lilting back, the two of us swaying in the dim light, arms wrapped around each other. We were the only two people in the world. 

“Alright,” Alex says.

“He liked it when Fleetwood Mac did it,” I say. “He liked how they sang it.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Are we talking ‘Landslide,’ here, or what?” 

“No,” I say, firmly. “‘Songbird.’”

“Oh, okay,” he says, and jots the title down. 

“Make sure to put that it’s by Fleetwood Mac,” I say, pointing listlessly towards the paper. “Fleetwood Mac, okay?”

When Alex’s eyes meet mine, his gaze is almost as heavy as my own.

“Okay,” he agrees softly, writing down the band’s name in his unruly handwriting - but meticulously all the same. “Okay, April. Fleetwood Mac. I got it.” 

I lean against the couch cushion and fold my hands in my lap. My fingers are cold and stiff; I want a warm body to heat me up. I want one body specifically, but I know better than anyone that he isn’t warm anymore. He’s colder than I am. 

And he’s alone, too. 

“He’ll be in the ground,” I mutter, staring at my knobby knees. 

Alex looks over, attention on me for a mere second. I assume he doesn’t know how to respond, so he stays quiet.

“What about the headstone?” I ask. 

“We’ll get to it,” he replies, moving the pen in circles. “But first, we need more songs. I’m trying to stick to one thing at a time, A. I don’t want you to get overwhelmed.” 

“I already am,” I say quietly, but he doesn’t hear. 

“Did he like anything else by that band?” he asks. “Do you remember him ever saying something like that?” 

I don’t reply. I pick at that stupid thread. That’s all I can concentrate on.

“Anything else by Fleetwood Mac?” Alex presses.

I shake my head minutely, shrug my shoulders just barely, and say, “No.” 

He lets a tense, but tranquil, moment pass. It’s so palpable I practically watch it swim by in long, calculated strokes. 

“Classical,” I finally say. “He liked classical.”

“Okay,” Alex says, resuming his writing. “Anything specific?” 

I stare again, chin angled down, eyes hard and unblinking. We only talked about classical artists a few times; it didn’t come up often. Now, I regret how much I used to monopolize the radio. I wish I would’ve taken the time to hear more of what came from his heart. I never gave him the space to show me. 

“I only know like, Mozart,” Alex mumbles. “Beethoven, maybe? Who’s the other guy, Bach?” 

“Mozart,” I say. 

“Mozart,” he repeats, while writing. “Pretty sure that dude’s got a lot of stuff. I don’t have any idea where to start. Do you? Do you remember a title, or something?” 

I tuck my hair behind my ears over and over again, tracing the paths with my pointer fingers. I think of sitting with Jackson in the kitchen as his Spotify played beautiful piano music, and I talked on and on about my day. Back then, I hadn’t realized how little time was left. I squandered each precious second because to me, they were limitless. 

He didn’t even say goodbye. 

That day in the kitchen, he stopped responding to my drivel and directed his attention toward the phone as calm, smooth notes sounded throughout the room. From the way his eyes lit up, it was easy to tell that song was his favorite.

“April, we don’t have enough time to freakin’ search through everything Mozart ever wrote,” Alex says, still talking. “So, either you tell me a title, or-” 

“Stop!” I plead. “Please, can you go slower? Can you just… I need… I need a minute.”

He stops talking and runs his tongue over his lower lip, watching me, waiting for my next move. I need to catch my breath; suddenly there are thousands of thoughts inside my head and they’re all crashing into each other at warp speed; none are coherent, either.

I want Jackson back. I need him so badly. When I got like this, he could ground me. Center me. Calm me down and remind me where I was, who I was, how to move forward. 

Now, I spiral without a clear view of the end.

“Hey,” Alex says, interrupting my heavy breaths. “You’re good, you’re doing good. We just need a bit more. I wish I didn’t have to make you do this. But I want it to be nice for him, and for you. And you know him best, right?” 

“I know him best,” I repeat, voice cracking. “He was mine. I know him best.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, nodding. “You know him the best out of anyone. That’s why I need you to stick with me for just a little longer. Then, you can rest.”

“I’m so tired, Alex,” I say, eyes welling up with tears. 

“I know,” he says. “I just need you to try and remember the name of a Mozart song he liked.” 

The whirring thoughts return, clouding my vision and voice. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember the songs he told me about, the beautiful language he used. He carefully chose his words and wove them together like the professional he was; his brain was brilliant. 

But while brilliant, it was deadly. Ultimately, his brain was what killed him. His downfall was the aspect I fell in love with first. 

I don’t bother with laughing at the irony.

I can’t think of the title. Suddenly, I can’t think of any details at all. Was he left or right handed? Where did he go to college? When was his birthday? What did his lips feel like? How did his skin taste? 

Never mind the song title, I have bigger things to worry about - bigger blank spaces in my memory.

“I can’t remember,” I whisper, wringing my hands and breathing hard. “I-I can’t… I…” 

“Hey. It’s okay,” Alex offers. 

A surge of rage surprises both of us when I scream, “No, it’s not! It’s not okay!” 

I start crying - tears flowing hot and forceful, running in steady rivers down my cheeks and under my chin. They forge a path to my collar and wet my shirt, and my body feels like it’s being lit on fire. I’ve never felt so many emotions at once, and they have nowhere to go but up and out. 

“April…” 

“I lost him,” I say, body trembling. “It was my fault. I could’ve done something. You know, that day, I took the long way home? I needed space, I needed to breathe. I took the long way. And when I got here, I found him on the floor.”

Alex stares at me, dumbfounded. 

“Maybe if I would’ve just come home,” I shout. “He would be here right now! If I just would’ve come home to him, I wouldn’t be planning the father of my baby’s fucking funeral!” 

My arms fly from my sides, jutting every which way. I knock over a vase on the coffee table and send it flying, and it hits the hearth of the fireplace and shatters. I don’t flinch at the sound, it only propels me further. But instead of aiming for another inanimate object to harm, I aim for myself. I start whaling on my thighs as hard as I can, punching in hopes to make bruises, leave marks. 

“It’s my fault he’s dead,” I scream. “It’s all my fault.” 

Alex doesn’t let me continue for more than a few seconds before he leaps into action. He throws the notebook to the side and envelops me in what, at first, seems like a bear hug at the most inopportune time. I fight against him and realize he’s holding on in an attempt to protect me from myself, not to comfort me. 

I don’t let up. I keep grunting, urging my arms out, thrashing my torso trying to free myself. 

“It’s not fair!” I scream, so loud my voices breaks. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair.” 

I stop moving and begin to catch my breath. Alex’s grip doesn’t relent. 

“I know,” he says, speaking over my head. He rocks me side to side, and I let him. “I know.”

…

That night, the apartment is silent. It’s always been quiet, but this is different. I’m not alone here - Alex is sleeping in the guest room - but I’ve never felt so solitary.

I inhale shakily, in pain, and open my mouth to speak. 

“Baby, come to bed,” I whimper, and beg for a response.

I stay on my side and stare at the wall. Any minute now, I tell myself, Jackson will come padding into the room and brush his teeth, then change into pajamas. He’s up late grading papers, probably stressed over how bad they are. He’ll come in, go through his routine, then slide behind me. He’ll tell me all the doors are locked, and kiss the side of my neck while letting his lips linger. We won’t have sex. We’re too tired. But he’ll spoon me, wrap his arms tight and breathe me in, then tuck his face into my hair.

I run my fingers through it now. He loved it so much, to the point of obsession. His hands were always in it, sexually or otherwise.

Now, it a burden. A sick reminder. A rope that will eventually hang me. 

I don’t want it anymore. Every time I touch it, flashes come back. And if anyone else should ever lay hands on it, it will always feel like they’re tainting something of his. 

It can’t stay. 

I turn and cover my face with my hands. My hair moves with me, bunching under my head like a swarthing pillow. I can’t remember the last time I brushed it.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. 

I climb out of bed wearing the same pajamas I’ve been in for days and head to the bathroom. I turn the light on, squint against it, and search for scissors. All I find are the ones Jackson used to use to refine his beard, and those won’t stand a chance in working through my mane. So, I head to the kitchen to find the cooking shears. 

I bring them up to the bathroom and set them on the counter, where they stare at me while I retreat into the closet. I strip naked and stand in the middle, arms crossed over my chest, until my eyes land on his favorite charcoal button-up. 

I put it on, along with a new pair of my own underwear, and bury my face in the collar. It smells like his neck - his cologne and the innate scent of his skin. 

I plan on drowning in it. 

I go back to the bathroom and tighten my fingers around the cool blades of the shears, holding tight to wake myself up with the dull ache. I sit in the empty bathtub, knees to my chest, and gather my hair in one fist to hold it like a ponytail. 

My hands don’t shake. My drive doesn’t waver. My eyes are set on a far point on the wall and when those scissors glide across my hair, I don’t regret it.

The weight lifts instantly, more physical than anything, but there’s an emotional lightening, too. My hair surrounds me in a puddle of fire, licking at my bare legs while lying limp and lifeless. 

I’ve given myself a hasty, harsh bob. Cold air hits my neck and I shiver because of it; hair no longer touches my shoulders. 

I collect what I cut and hold it gracefully, running my fingers through it as if my touch were his. Trying to feel what he felt, trying to put myself in his place. His shirt. His apartment. And now, he can have my hair, too. 

It’s hard not to remember the lesson I was taught growing up: a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. Now, I’ve just rid myself of that. Now, I’m not only pregnant, not only alone, but I’m immodest. Ugly.

But I made this choice. I made it by myself, for myself. And that’s the best I can do right now.

I leave the locks in the tub and brush myself off on the way back to bed. I turn onto my other side with my eyes on the empty spot, the spot vacated by the body I loved so much. The strong, sturdy man who would wind his arms around my waist and hold me all night. 

I wonder what he would say after seeing the irrational haircut I gave myself. I wonder what he’s thinking right now; I wonder if he can see me at all. I wonder if the afterlife is real, I wonder if I’m silly to hold onto the thought of heaven after the way religion has abused me. 

I have to hold onto hope, though. I can’t accept that the beautiful life he led is simply over and gone. There has to be some continuation. There has to be something more.

We had barely begun. The thought that he is still with me acts as a security blanket, a warm shawl draped over my shoulders, my ‘not so girly’ winter hat on a cold, snowy day. 

But while I hold onto the fact that he might still be here in spirit, his body isn’t. I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep without being held, without warmth radiating next to me. I know, even if I close my eyes, I will not rest tonight. Not in this big bed, full of memories, but devoid of any heart. 

I get out again and shiver. I’m not used to the cold now that my natural blanket is gone, sitting without me in the tub.

I cross the hall, walking slow, until I get to the guest bedroom. The door is wide open, which is unlike Alex, but I’m sure it was so he could hear me if I needed something. I appreciate the gesture without having to acknowledge it out loud.

In the low light, I see him lying on his back with the covers up to his waist. His arms are strewn above his head, lips parted as he snores slightly. He sleeps so differently than Jackson, wide open and vulnerable, while my fiance was always protected and guarded, in the way he’d been forced to grow used to. 

I pad across the carpet, feeling the softness graze the bottoms of my bare feet. I stand on the opposite side of the bed for a moment, eyes drifting over Alex, before climbing under the covers beside him.

There’s nothing sexual about it. Nothing romantic, either. It’s about the primal need of another human at my side, breathing, existing. I can’t sleep without it. Right now, it feels as if I can’t live without it.

I adjust and lie on my side towards him, but it’s not enough. I need proof. I need something that will force my feet to the ground. 

I extend an arm and rest a flat palm over the middle of his chest. After a moment of still silence, I feel it. The steady beat of his heart. 

I fall asleep within minutes.

…

I wake up the next morning facing the other way, spine curled forward. I open my eyes just as Alex stirs, then hear a gasp. 

“April, what the hell?” he says. “Where’s your hair? What happened?” 

I blink hard, trying to wake up. “I cut it,” I state simply, voice still scratchy.

“When did you come in here?” he asks.

“In the middle of the night,” I say.

“Where the fuck’s your hair?”

“In the bathtub,” I answer.

“Wh… why… what? Dude.” 

I roll over to look at him. I haven’t woken up with this boy in a very long time, and I’ve forgotten what he’s like first thing in the morning. Confused and disoriented, not clear like Jackson. His mind is still muddled.

“I know it’s a shock,” I say. “But I didn’t want to keep it because-”

“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “I get it.” 

“Okay.” 

He looks at me for a beat. “But we need to get you to a salon,” he says. “‘Cause you cut like shit.”

I giggle softly, but I don’t smile. I know he’s right, and I’ll let him take me. 

“The song,” I say, after we don’t speak for a while. Much like Jackson, I find my mind clear this morning. The memories come easier, the small details have returned like they never left. “The song I was trying to remember. It’s called Laudate Dominum.”

...

Alex pays for a hairdresser to turn my hair into more than a sloppy bob, and by the time it’s over, I actually like the way it looks. It’s still a bob, but she thinned my hair to make it less poofy and more sleek, so it lies flat and shiny on my head in a way it never has before. I can’t stop touching it. I miss my long hair, but the memories had grown heavier than the hair itself. 

It wasn’t Jackson’s death alone that prompted me to let it go. That hair held so much more than that, held so many more years captive.

Now, in one small sense, I’m free.

…

I throw up twice before the funeral. Once, in the bathroom before we left the house and again, in a group of bushes lined in front of the church.

I’m not only nervous, but having morning sickness as well.

I’m wearing a knee-length black dress, black tights, black pumps. My new, short hair is clipped half-back with a pretty pin Jackson bought me for Christmas. My engagement ring adorns the middle finger of my right hand, so not to attract attention. 

I keep my head down. When Alex takes my arm and walks me inside, my gut lurches. My throat tightens, but I’m all out of tears. I’ve cried enough in the past week to never cry again. I feel a debilitating, impeccable sadness with no outlet remaining.

“Can I see him?” I whisper, my words casting a shadow on the floor.

Alex hears me, though. There are plenty of people already here - staff, students, colleagues - we are far from alone. But we are the ones who set up the service, though no one is aware. We know things they don’t.

For the service, the casket will be closed. But right now, he’s in a different room for viewing. A viewing open to me only, and Alex if he chooses. But he won’t. 

We walk there together and he stays in the hall.

“Just… uh, come out when you’re done,” he says, clasping his hands together at the waist with his feet shoulder-width apart. He’s wearing a sharp suit - I wasn’t aware he owned anything more than jeans. “I’ll be here.” 

I agree with a short nod and disappear behind the closed doors. The room inside is decorated ornately, but with a sterile quality to it. His body lies in a coffin a few feet away, only the upper half visible as the lid is raised partly.

I stop walking, stunned. He looks so handsome. He looks just like he did in the coma; it gives me a stupid, sparkling dose of hope that is grossly misplaced. 

“Baby,” I whisper.

Logic has no home here. Right now, to me, he’s present. He’s beside me, he’s alive. He’s resting, waiting. Once I touch him, he’ll wake up. He’ll open those amazing eyes and flash one of the smiles meant just for me.

I force myself forward until I’m leaning over him. He could be a painting, he’s so still. His chest doesn’t move, his pulse doesn’t show through his neck or temples. He’s a work of art, a marble statue, frozen in time. 

“Baby, I’m here,” I say, reaching to hold his wrist. 

I flinch and pull away immediately, though, after I touch it. Instead of warm and inviting, his skin is cold and stiff. There’s no blood underneath, there’s nothing at all. 

I take a step back. He is an empty shell. He isn’t here anymore, not in this body. 

I walk backwards from the casket, and although I can’t tear my eyes away, it doesn’t feel right to speak to the corpse. It felt as if it wanted to be left alone, because it wasn’t Jackson. Not really. 

I said goodbye to him when he still had a heartbeat. This version of him is a casing of who he was, a near caricature. It isn’t him. It stopped being Jackson when he took that final breath with my arms thrown around him in the hospital room. 

“I’m ready,” I say to Alex, swiftly taking his hand once I leave the viewing room. 

I can tell he’s surprised by my actions, but knows I need a pillar of strength. And he’s all I have in that department right now. 

We walk through throngs of people socializing in the lobby. Some I don’t recognize, and some I do. Most of the conversations I catch are people commending his wonderful brain, his beautiful education, and his upstanding talent. Those are the adults. 

The students are different. Their eyes flit about the room in search of news, of drama. I can smell it on them, and it only perpetuates my need to vomit. 

“... heard he might have been sleeping with a student. Wonder if the guilt just got to him, or something.” 

“You seriously think he did it himself?” 

“I don’t know. Could have. Timing’s right.” 

Alex grips my hand tighter and asks if I’m okay. I firmly shake my head no. 

“He died of a massive brain aneurysm,” I say boldly, stepping up to the group of young girls I don’t know. But in that moment, I don’t care that I don’t know them. I ignore their shocked faces and stick up for my fiance. “Please show a little fucking respect.” 

“April,” Alex warns, pulling me back. 

I allow him to. 

I don’t hear what’s said about Jackson throughout the service, at least not for the most part. I hear the songs, and they’re beautiful, but I don’t cry. I’m too empty. Too hollow. And I have face to save. 

I can’t be more affected than anyone else. I was his student, and that’s all. I appreciated his classes and loved what he taught me. I never loved him. 

It’s an uncomfortable mask to wear, but for the sake of Jackson’s dignity and my stubbornness, I keep it on. I won’t have him spoken ill of when he’s not here to defend himself. 

Interrupting whoever is at the altar, I lean over to Alex and say, “I want to say something.”

The speeches thus far have meant nothing. They’re surface-level words with feathery compliments that could be true about anyone. I want him to go out with a bright memory, a solid force, an impact. I want everyone to know his life meant something. 

“Okay,” Alex says, and I confidently walk down the aisle until I get to the podium. 

Only once I’m standing before the wide audience do I realize I have nothing planned. I told Alex, vehemently, that I would not speak at the funeral for reasons I went over again and again. But now, going against my word, I’m vastly unprepared. 

So, I try and speak from my heart and hope it’s good enough.

“I’ve had plenty of professors during my college career,” I begin, hands flat over the slanted wood. 

A small booklet with Jackson’s face on the front cover sits between my palms, and he looks at me with an expression I know well. It’s one he always wore while he listened to me, enraptured in whatever I was saying. I could’ve been going on and on about how water leaked inside my boot, and he’d still give me this look. Seeing it propels me to continue. 

“But Dr. Avery was unlike any other. He not only taught his classes well, but he actually cared about the curriculum. In my opinion, that quality in an educator is taken for granted by too many students. He showed me a side of learning I’d never experienced, and opened my eyes to brand new worlds. He guided me through many things, and was always so patient.” 

I think back to when he offered me extra books in his office, when our hands brushed. That feels like a lifetime ago.

“He catered to his students,” I say. “And made sure everyone’s needs were met. He continually went above and beyond. He was someone I always looked forward to seeing. Being taught by him was a challenge, even more so if you could keep up. He made class exciting. He gave me a new desire to learn. He made me see the world in an entirely new light.” 

My voice breaks. I have to stop soon.

“He helped me become more confident,” I say. “And what I’m most confident in today is this: Dr. Avery will be dearly, widely missed.” 

Wiping my eyes, I hurry down from the altar and retreat to Alex, who welcomes me with open arms. I had promised I wouldn’t cry and give myself away, but I’ve lost control. With my best friend’s arms wrapped around my shoulders, I cry for the love I’ve lost. 

…

It doesn’t feel right to leave Jackson in a place I can’t stay, but I’m not so disillusioned as to stick around. I know we have to leave. I know this is no place for the living. 

After he’s lowered into the ground under a beautiful headstone, Alex walks with me out of the cemetery. We pass groups of people along the way, and an especially clear voice resonates as it drifts through the heavy air. 

“He was my grandson,” the voice says. “I can’t tell you how amazing he was. He did the family name proud. Couldn’t have asked for a better legacy. We’d drifted apart over the last few years, but I always kept tabs on him. He turned out to be quite the reputable man.”

My entire body goes rigid. I know who’s talking. I drop Alex’s hand and slowly pivot on my heel, facing the one and only Harper Avery.

“Excuse me,” I say, taking calculated steps in his direction. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you Harper Avery?” 

He meets my eyes. His are such a light shade of blue that they almost appear transparent. 

“I am,” he says, shooting me a slippery smile while extending his hand to shake mine. “Who might you be?”

I extend my hand, too, but not for the reason he does. I wind back my arm and smack him clear across the face - and it’s no half-hearted slap, either. It’s a powerful blow that sends him reeling, stumbling as he tries to regain his footing. 

“Fuck you,” I snarl, and spit in his direction. “You know what you did, you fucker. You’ll pay for it someday.” 

He tries to stand up straight while holding his face. I hear Alex running up behind me, and I raise my hand to hit the old pedophile again, but not before my swinging arm is rendered immobile under a strong grip. 

“Stop it, April. Stop it,” Alex orders, pulling on me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“He deserves to die!” I scream. “He does, not Jackson. Not my Jackson!” 

Alex pulls me away, and I kick and fight while he does. If left to my own devices, I’d kill Harper Avery on the spot. 

“Go to hell, you bastard!” I shout, even as i’m being dragged away. “You know what you did!” 

Once we’re far enough away, Alex lets go of me with a powerful release.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he berates. “Why are you beating up old men? Is that a thing? Is this a coping mechanism, or something?” 

“Don’t be stupid,” I say, brushing myself off. My face is still hot. 

“What did you do that for, then?” he asks again. 

I go to push my hair away from my shoulders only to find nothing there. So, instead of acting on a nervous tic, I start walking and Alex follows.

“Are you gonna fuckin’ answer me?” 

I look at him pointedly and shake my head. 

“No. Certain things have to stay between me,” I say, then face forward again. “And the dead.” 

…

They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. But with Jackson, I always knew. From the first moment, I knew how special he was. But I had no idea how special the role he’d play in my life would be. 

I had no idea that, twenty weeks after his death, my belly would be swollen with life he planted inside me. Sitting in his class on the first day of school, sweating over how he looked in a dress shirt, this was the last thing I expected. It’s so unfathomable, that in my wildest dreams I could’ve have imagined this. 

It’s the winter of my senior year, and my stomach is still subtle enough to hide. No one knows but Alex. I’ve gotten good at wearing baggy clothes, and very good at lying.

Lying to everyone but Alex. He’s been by my side through everything, literally and figuratively. Right now, he’s at my side while I get my first ultrasound - to find out the sex of the baby. 

“You want to know, correct?” the OB asks, pausing the sensor while turning to look into my eyes. 

I nod.

I can tell, simply by her demeanor, that she assumes Alex is the father. To lessen the awkwardness she’ll inevitably feel, I don’t call attention to it. I want to, but I’ve learned to refrain from certain things. 

“Congratulations, Miss Kepner,” she says, grinning. “You’re having a little baby girl.” 

I smile softly, the corner of my lips pulling up. I’m having a little girl - Jackson’s daughter - and I’ll call her Evangeline. His favorite name.

Angel for short.


	20. Chapter 20

**APRIL**

“We don’t have to stay long. I just have to grab a few things.”

Alex and I are riding in the car together on the way to the townhouse, having just left my doctor’s appointment. I hold the printed sonogram in my hands, only touching the edges and corners. It’s precious, I don’t want fingerprints marring it.

It’s still surreal, the fact that I’m pregnant, that I’m creating life. But it’s proven by this sheet of paper with my name in the upper left corner. 

Kepner, April. This is my baby. Evangeline is my baby, my daughter, and she’s living and thriving inside me. 

I don’t respond to Alex because his words aren’t my main focus. All I’m thinking about is my little girl, my Angel, who has already lit up my world. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Alex says, dropping the previous subject and glancing at what I’m holding. “Congratulations, by the way. A daughter.” 

“Yeah,” I say softly, and stroke the outline of her skull. 

“Big ass head,” Alex says, pressing on the gas. “Must get that from the professor.” 

Instead of making me sad, his comment forces a laugh out of me. It begins deep in my lungs, then blossoms like a flower from my mouth. The sound surprises me as much as it does him. 

“You’re right,” I say, still giggling.

“What’re you gonna call her?” he asks. 

I blink softly at the picture, imagining what it will feel like to hold her against my chest. I imagine her warm weight, tucked close to my heart. I don’t plan on ever letting her go. 

“Evangeline Jacqueline,” I say. 

I hear Alex smile without seeing it. 

“After her dad,” he says, tone full of heart. “I like that, A. That’s good.”

We pull up to the townhouse and I slip the photo inside my purse, then situate the fabric of my shirt away from my body. 

“Don’t say anything,” I say, eyes flashing at Alex. 

“Of course I won’t, geez,” he says, eyebrows lowering. “Dude, I know.” 

“Okay,” I say, looking down at my nails as I pick them. “I just wanted to make sure.” 

“You’re good,” he says. “Let’s just go in. It’ll only be a few minutes.” 

I follow him, feeling like a stranger inside a house I used to call home. I stay close on his heels, self-consciously covering my belly, and look for Addie and Amelia.

“Are they home?” I ask. 

“How should I know?” he replies, and he’s right. As of late, we’re always together. He’s been staying at the apartment with me since, once again, I can’t bear to be alone. 

“I don’t know,” I mumble. 

“A, it’s fine. Just chill. Go to the kitchen, find some ice cream. Have a snack, you’ll feel better.” 

I sigh softly. “Where will you be?” 

He gives me a look. “I’m gonna go drop a load. So, if you wanna follow, be my guest. But I doubt you do, judging by the Chipotle I had earlier.” 

“You disgust me,” I say, lip raised.

He snorts and says, “That’s what I thought.” 

He heads to the bathroom and I go in the opposite direction, keeping my eyes open for Addison and Amelia. The house is quiet, it doesn’t seem like they’re here, but I’ve been fooled before. I try not to worry about it; even if they are here, it’s fine. I’m wearing a loose shirt that isn’t form-fitting whatsoever, and they would never bring up a little weight gain. 

I grab a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer and sit down at the kitchen table, allowing myself to zone out while I sit and eat it. I use one hand to hold the spoon and the other rests around my lower belly like a belt - a comforting sensation, one that grounds me. 

I let my mind drift to thoughts of Jackson, where they often go when I’m alone and it’s quiet. I think of how much he’d touch my stomach and talk to the baby, and I think of how protective he’d be over the both of us. I can practically feel his grip braced on the small of my back as we walked down the sidewalk, or his steady hand helping me into the car. He would be everything, do everything. He would’ve made the perfect husband. 

I touch the ring on my finger and my eyes burn with tears. Would’ve been, should’ve been. I don’t know how many times I’ve repeated those phrases. So much so, they’ve pretty much lost all meaning.

I take another bite of ice cream, a big one. So big, that half falls off the spoon and lands in a glob on my stomach, and I laugh to myself. 

“Oops,” I say aloud, and pick it up with my fingers to place it back in my mouth. “Your mama is a klutz,” I whisper to the baby only. “And now, my shirt is dirty.” 

There’s a big, brown stain, and it doesn’t look good. 

“I wonder if I have any old shirts here,” I say, getting myself up from the table in the way Alex makes fun of me for. He says I’m already moving like I’m 8 months pregnant, pushing up with my arms instead of my legs and leaning all my weight back. “Let’s go see.” 

I plug my nose as I walk past the bathroom, and head up the stairs to my old room. I dig through the dresser in search of something, anything, and finally come across a hoodie I haven’t worn since the beginning of college. It’s either that or a measly camisole, and the latter isn’t really an option.

I strip my stained shirt, and have it lifted halfway over my head when I hear a voice in the hallway.

“April, is that you? Hey, what are you- wait…. Whoa…” 

Panic takes over my entire body as I fight my way out of the shirt. I yank it off completely and throw it across the room, grappling for the hoodie to cover myself. With my head uncovered, I see Amelia standing in the doorway, looking shocked. Her eyes are wide and the blood has drained from her face. She can’t stop staring. 

“April,” she says, tone very serious. “Are you… are you pregnant?” 

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. I breathe heavier, faster, and the tears come out of nowhere - sliding in slick streams down my cheeks, being replaced quicker than I can wipe them away. 

I hadn’t wanted them to find out like this. I hadn’t wanted them to find out at all. 

“Holy shit,” she says, because my lack of an answer is an answer in itself. “Oh, my god, Flower. What happened? Why didn’t you tell us? Who’s the father? Are you gonna keep it? Do you need me to take you to the clinic?” 

I can’t respond. My mind has come to a complete stop, experiencing heavy gridlock. All I can do is cry and stare, eyes blinking wet into her face.

“Honey, it’s okay,” Amelia says, her tone ever-so-logical. “Who did this to you? Was it my brother? Was it Derek? Oh, my god, I’ll kill him.” 

She pauses for a moment; I see the cogs in her brain working double-time. 

“Holy shit…” she trails off. “Was it Owen? Oh, sweetie. Oh, god.” 

“No,” I manage to say, though my voice quakes. I shake my head violently, which makes my short hair flip and fly. 

“Who was it, then?” she asks, coming closer. I back away and keep her at a distance. I’m still not wearing a shirt, and I’ve never felt so exposed. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

I might vomit. She’s literally backing me into a corner, though she thinks she’s helping.

“I-I…” I stammer, having no idea what to say. 

What  _ can _ I say? There’s no viable option here. If I say Derek, Amelia will inevitably be involved. If I say Owen, it’ll turn into a huge thing - bigger than it already is. Telling the truth is off the table. I won’t have them slander Jackson in the way they would if they knew. They will never understand. 

Before I can make something up, though, Alex appears out of nowhere. He gently pushes past Amelia and walks inside the room, where he grabs the hoodie and helps me into it. He pulls the hood over my head and flips my hair out, then winds an arm around my lower back. 

“It’s my baby,” he tells Amelia, looking right into her face without wavering. “I’m the father. You don’t need to worry about it, or flip your shit, or go spreading crap around. But me and April, yeah. We’re gonna have a baby, and that’s our business. Not yours. Alright?” 

Her facial expression encompasses everything I’m feeling. Shock, surprise, disbelief, and a tiny bit of betrayal. 

“You didn’t tell…” she mutters, sputtering. 

“Some things don’t need to be put on a blimp and advertised around town,” he says, brash as ever as his arm tightens on my waist. 

Then, Addison appears. “What’s going on?” she asks. “You guys seem weird.” 

Amelia looks between the redhead in the hall and Alex and me in the bedroom. “They’re…” she attempts. 

“What?” Addie asks, looking confused. 

“April’s pregnant,” Amelia says. “With Alex’s kid.” 

“Holy  _ fuck _ , what?” Addie exclaims. “You’re joking. Is this a joke? You know, I’m not as gullible as I was a few years ago. I’m not gonna believe you so easy, like when you told me Mothman was your dad.” 

“You’re fuckin’ dumb, dude,” Alex says. “No. She’s not lying.” 

“Bullshit,” Addie says, then meets my eyes. “April, come on. They’re kidding right?” 

I keep my eyes on hers, unblinking. 

“Come on,” she says again. “This can’t seriously be true. Show me your belly.”

I wrap my arms protectively around my middle and take a step back. Alex’s shoulders puff up as he moves to guard me, as if she’d come closer for proof. 

“It’s true,” I mutter, but it doesn’t feel good to say.

It feel like I’m taking something away from Jackson, something big. Something that, in life, he never knew he had. If my beliefs are true and he’s watching me right now, I can’t imagine how he feels. Robbed, probably. I hate it. 

“Well, fuck me,” Addie says. “I never would have guessed.” 

Amelia steps back into the conversation. “So, you two are obviously fucking again.” 

I don’t bother with telling her we were never sleeping together in the first place, and are nowhere near it now. Alex is my pillar of strength, my lighthouse, but he is not my lover.

“Don’t be fucking gross, Adds,” Alex says. “It’s more than that.” 

“And you’re  _ keeping _ it?” Amelia hisses, eyes wide. “You’re a senior, April! When are you due? How far along are you? What are you gonna do after, just be a stay-at-home mom, or what?” 

I back away from her, further into Alex’s arms. I have no rebuttal, no argument. She has cornered me, and instead of lashing out like a feral animal, I retreat further into my shell. Since Jackson’s death and my pregnancy, my state of being swings between two states. One, an unstable, unstoppable force that might lash out at any minute. Two, a meek and mild flight risk. It’s obvious which of the two I’ve settled into today.

“Lay off her,” Alex growls. “We’re figuring it out, and it’s none of your business, like I said two seconds ago.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Addie asks. 

“Are you seriously asking that?” Alex asks. “You’re jumping down her goddamn throat. Let her breathe for a fuckin’ second, Jesus. It’s her life. She can do what she wants.” 

“Do  _ you _ wanna keep it?” Amelia asks him, as if I’m not standing right here. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says. 

“I still can’t believe it,” Addie says, shaking her head. “Alex knocked April up. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming. When did it happen? It wasn’t planned, was it?” 

I can’t take it anymore. I push my way out of Alex’s arms and burst out of the room, dividing Addie and Amelia to hurry down the stairs. They might call after me, but I don’t hear anything above the ringing in my ears and my hiccuping sobs as I head to the car.

I open the passenger’s side door and sit in the cold, leaned forward with my hands covering my face. That was the last thing I wanted to happen, and now everything is wrong. Now, they’ll ask me questions every chance they get and think they’re doing me a service by checking up on the baby. It’s everything I hoped to avoid.

I took something of Jackson’s today. Actually, Alex did. I’m fully aware he was just trying to help, but it doesn’t do anything to quell the churning in my gut. This baby, our little Angel, is his. Not Alex’s. Everything else was stripped away from Jackson, but I wanted this to be the one thing that wasn’t. 

It’s not like I could come out and tell my friends, though. That would make things worse. Alex did nothing wrong. I’m not angry with him. 

I come to realize that I’m angry with God instead. For stealing Jackson’s life, for cutting our time short, for never letting my baby know her father. For never letting Jackson know his daughter. 

“I hate you,” I say, maliciously, under my breath as I stare at the dashboard. “I hate you for what you did.” 

It doesn’t take long for Alex to join me in the car. By the time he does, I have my head leaned against the window and I’m shivering. 

He turns on the engine right away and looks at me, expression soft and concerned.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just didn’t know what else to say.” 

He turns the heat on full blast, and the sound of the fans take over the small space.

“It’s freezing in here,” he says. “Aren’t you cold?” 

I don’t answer. My eyes creak when I blink. 

“I didn’t know what else to say,” he repeats, a bit more desperate. “Please, A. Don’t be mad. I didn’t think you’d want them to know about the professor.” 

“I didn’t,” I admit, quietly. “And I’m not mad. Not at you.”

“At who?” he asks. 

I shrug, just slightly. “Everyone,” I say, then shake my head.

He reaches across the divider and cups my knee, stroking my jeans with his thumb. “I know,” he says. “It fuckin’ sucks. The professor should be here, balls deep in kid preparation. You know his serious ass would crack for that baby.” 

I flash the tiniest, tiniest smile. Because he’s right. 

“I want that, too,” he says. “I swear I wasn’t trying to take the kid away from him. I wasn’t.” 

“I know that,” I whisper, nodding. “I know.”

“But it still sucks,” he says, hand unmoving. 

“Yeah,” I agree. “It really does.” 

…

When we get to the apartment, I step out of the car and wait for Alex to join, but he doesn’t. I bend in half and see he hasn’t moved from the driver’s seat, hands still braced on the wheel. 

“What are you doing?” I ask. 

He looks surprised that I’ve spoken. “Oh,” he says. “I thought you might not want me to stay. If you didn’t… I wasn’t… I don’t know.” 

“Of course I want you to stay,” I say. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, unbuckling. “I just wasn’t sure. If you ever get tired of me, you know you can tell me to fuck off.” 

He locks the car and we match stride as we make our way to the front door. 

“I’m not gonna do that,” I say. “Alex. I need you.”

He turns his head and gives me a gentle smile. 

I’m exhausted, so after eating dinner and showering, I change into pajamas. Alex is in the living room channel surfing, not stopping on anything in particular, and I hover near the end of the couch. 

“Hey,” he say, noticing me. “Wanna sit?” 

“No, thanks,” I say. I run one hand over my belly, the belly I won’t have to hide now that people know. “I’m kinda tired.” 

“Oh, alright,” he says. 

I don’t know how to ask what comes next. It’s not something we openly talk about, because it’s so difficult to explain. Alex and I are best friends, we’ve known each other for years; we talk about mostly everything. But this unspoken bond we’ve created after Jackson’s passing is too hard to put into words. I’m nowhere near ready to try. I wish he could read my mind in the way Jackson could. 

“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” I say, trying again. 

I inhale deeply and continue to watch him, begging him to pick up on what I mean. 

“Sounds good,” he says. 

I close my eyes briefly. He doesn’t understand. 

“Can you… come, too?” I ask, swallowing my pride and putting it out there.

We haven’t slept a night apart since the funeral. Not only does it feel wrong to sleep alone - at this point, it’s impossible. I don’t like being by myself while awake, but it isn’t even an option while I sleep. I need to have someone next to me; preferably Alex, whom I trust and love.

“Oh,” he says, realizing. “Oh, sure. Yeah. I’ll be right there.” 

I smile to thank him and turn to head into the guest bedroom. I spend time in mine and Jackson’s bedroom during the day; I relax on our bed, I read and think about him, but I don’t sleep there. I especially don’t sleep there with Alex. That was mine and Jackson’s place, and the one area in the house where Alex is not welcome. 

I crawl under the covers and get comfortable, and he comes in not long after. We don’t cuddle - it’s not like that. If anything, I reach out and hold his wrist, or rest my hand on his chest. He doesn’t wrap his arms around me, he doesn’t spoon me from behind, he doesn’t drop kisses to my hairline. Lying with him is nothing like lying with my fiance, it’s simply survival. It’s the beat of a human heart alongside my own - a reminder of where I’m meant to stay.

…

The month of February is morose and drab, and on the first sunny day I don’t have the urge to go outside. Alex is at work and I’m at the apartment by myself, because it’s Saturday and I don’t have class. But because I know exactly when he’ll be back, I’m okay today. 

I skim my hand over my belly and take my gray cardigan off, leaving just a white camisole behind. I adjust my leggings to rest under the bump - it’s always hard to decide whether I want the waistband above or below it - and head towards the stairs. 

I want to be in our bedroom today.

Alex and I have been working on a nursery for baby Angel. There’s a spare room that sat dormant for as long as I’ve been here, and it’s now painted pink. It has a box propped against the wall that holds the pieces of her crib; he has yet to put it together. There’s a dresser inside that holds the beginnings of a wardrobe, along with a few pacifiers, bibs, and other supplies. It’s been a slow process, but we’re getting there. 

Luckily, money isn’t an object for me and my baby. Jackson left me everything he had. 

When I get into the bedroom, the sun shines in from the windows. I used to wake up to this. I used to wake up to the sun on my face and strong arms around my body, but now I wake up facing the wall, untouched. Some mornings, Alex’s arm will be draped benignly over my hip, but I always move it. He doesn’t do it purposefully, just in his sleep, and I never tell him. I don’t want him to feel self-conscious, or uncomfortable sleeping with me. I still need him. I need him very much. 

I touch my stomach again and tap my fingertips against the surface as I stand in the middle of the room, surveying everything that has not moved. I’ve done that on purpose, to make it seem like maybe Jackson just stepped out. Like he’s coming back. A tie is slung over the back of the armchair, his glasses rest on the nightstand,  _ The Book Thief _ sits atop the headboard. 

I walk closer to the bed and drag my fingers over the carefully-made covers. 

“This is where your Daddy and I slept,” I whisper, using my free hand to stroke my stomach while I talk. I smile softly when I say, “I loved him very much. One day, I’ll tell you all about him.”

I climb onto the bed, on his side, and reach for the book. With my legs stretched in front of me - ankles crossed - I lean back and open it.

It strikes me, sitting there in the way he always used to, that he never finished it. He never saw the end to this beautifully tragic book, because his story had come to a close too soon. 

So, I decide to read aloud. Maybe for him, maybe for Evangeline, maybe for myself. But, either way, I clear my throat and use my voice. 

“On many counts, taking a boy like Rudy was robbery - so much life, so much to live for - yet somehow, I’m certain he would have loved to see the frightening rubble and the swelling of the sky on the night he passed away. He’d have cried and turned and smiled if only he could have seen the book thief on her hands and knees, next to his decimated body. He’d have been glad to witness her kissing his dusty, bomb-hit lips.” 

I lick my own lips, centering my gaze on the page. I don’t only read the words, I feel them. They grip me, hold me, gently cradle me. 

“Yes, I know it,” I continue, voice not loud at all. “In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He’d have loved it, all right.”

I pause and blink away tears. They’re impeding my vision. 

“You see?” I say. “Even death has a heart.” 

Right when I finish the last syllable and prepare to move onto the next chapter, something happens inside me. At first, I blame it on an upset stomach. But it’s a lighter feeling than that - a more wonderful one, too.

It can’t be. 

“Is that you?” I ask, a bit higher than a whisper. 

The feeling comes again. I drop the book, facedown, and press both palms to the swell of my belly.

“It is you,” I say. 

A confirmation. A greeting. An arrival. 

I throw my head back as my baby spins. The feeling is subtle. I might not have noticed it had I not been sitting so still, but I did notice. And she continues, letting me know that she’s here, and she’s been listening. She’s been listening all along. 

“Hi,” I say, looking down. “Hi, in there. Little Angel,” I say, voice clogged with tears. “I’m your mommy.” 

She does another flip, a quick one. A flip that makes my heart flutter along with my insides, and I let out a small burst of laughter. It’s a feeling unlike any other, the movement of life inside my body. I can barely wrap my head around it.

I wish he was here. 

“Jackson, she’s moving,” I say, blinking towards the ceiling. 

All I see is white staring back, so I close my eyes and picture his face. He’d be smiling, that I’m sure of. He’d lower his face to my middle, pull up my shirt, and press his lips right against the skin. He’d talk to her and let her know how loved she is, and how we can’t wait to meet her. He’d say all the right things, because that’s the kind of person he was. He always knew what to say, and when to say it. 

“She’s moving, Jackson. She’s alive.” I sniffle. “And she likes our book.” 

…

February turns into March, which passes quickly and welcomes the onset of spring. Campus is beautiful as the weather gets warmer; the white buds appear on the trees and the tulips blossom in the courtyard - everything is lovely besides the sweat that dampens my body whenever I step outside. 

Whether it’s walking to class, climbing a few stairs, or trying to get up from a desk, everything is a struggle. At nine months pregnant at the end of May, nothing comes easily anymore. Things I took for granted back when I wasn’t pregnant - grocery shopping, getting in and out of a car, or even crossing the street - cause me great strife now. 

But I haven’t let my grades suffer in the way my energy has. I did so well that I was able to take my exams early, which means there’s one less thing to stress about with the baby coming. All I have to worry about is the graduation ceremony, which won’t happen for a little while. There’s still time until then. 

When Alex comes home, I’m sitting on the back balcony wearing a sports bra and athletic shorts that didn’t used to be so tiny. I’m confident in my body, though - I’ve stayed in shape while pregnant, and I look good. I have my hair pulled into a ponytail, which makes me happy now that it’s grown enough to do so, and a bowl of ice cream propped on my belly. 

“Hey,” Alex says, peering out of the slider. 

I look over, eyebrows raised, and say, “Hey.” 

“What’re you doing?” 

I motion to the bowl. “Eating,” I say. 

“Yeah, I see that,” he says. “But the built-in shelf. Really?”

“Might as well use it while I can,” I say. “Anyway, she likes it. Come here. Feel her kick.” 

He obliges and takes a few steps over, placing a gentle hand on my lower belly. By now, he knows her positioning as well as I do. 

“Hey, Angel,” he says. “Damn, she’s strong.” 

“And you’re not even the one with those strong baby legs beating on your bladder all the time,” I say, chuckling. 

“A,” he says, sitting on the chair opposite mine. “Your doctor called me just now.” 

I keep my eyes on the sky and avoid looking at him. 

“Because you’ve been ignoring her. For two days.” 

“I’ve been busy,” I say. 

“With what? Sitting here and eating?” he says, but his tone isn’t venomous. “Dude, we need to go in. You remember what she said at your last appointment. If you don’t go into labor by the 28th, you need to be induced.” 

It’s the 30th now. 

“I’ve been meaning to call her back,” I say. 

“Stop,” he says, leaning back. “I don’t know why you’re being weird about this, but you are. Why didn’t you answer her calls, April? You know why she needed to talk to you. That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“It wasn’t anything like that,” I say. “I wasn’t ignoring her on purpose.” 

“Sure seems like you were,” he says. “For the sake of both you and her, Angel kinda needs to come out. Don’t you wanna make that happen?” 

I set my jaw straight. The coldness from the ice cream bowl seeps into my skin and gives me chills. 

I feel Alex’s eyes on me, unwavering, but I stay strong, too. 

“You don’t, do you,” he says. “You’re terrified.” 

I blink hard. Now, counteracting the cool bowl, the sun beats down on my skin as if it has a pulse itself. I feel it radiating in waves. 

I don’t speak for a long time, but Alex waits. He gives me space and the platform I need. 

“He’s not here,” I say, tracing the round of my stomach.

It’s past the point of big by now - it nearly engulfs my entire body. I’m ready for the baby to come out of me, to breathe her first gulp of air, but I don’t want her in this world. I want her in a world that has Jackson in it. I want Jackson to cut the cord, for Jackson to hold her, for Jackson to rub his nose against hers in the soft way he always did with me. 

I want her to know his love the way I did, and she never will. I don’t want to bring her into a world where I have to deprive her of something she deserves. 

Alex reaches over to take my hand, saying, “I figured it was something like that.”

We stay quiet for a while, thoughts simmering. 

“Don’t call me stupid,” he says, breaking the thick silence. “But I’ve been thinking a lot. You know, about death and… and life, and stuff like that.” 

I look over; he’s caught my attention. 

“Would it be so crazy to think that he’s already met her?” Alex asks. 

He’s finding it hard to meet my eyes. We don’t talk seriously like this very often. 

“Up in wherever. She hasn’t technically lived yet, and definitely doesn’t exist in the same world we do. He doesn’t, either. So… would it really be that weird if they already knew each other?” 

My eyes well up with tears. I’ve never thought of it like that before. 

“I don’t know,” he says, writing himself off. “I just know you hate that he never even knew you were pregnant. But… if I had to guess, I’d say he does know. And he already got to meet that awesome baby, which means I’m pretty damn jealous of that dude.” 

He scoffs playfully.

“As if I needed another reason.” 

…

“It hurts,” I cry, hair plastered to my head with sweat. “Alex, it hurts so much.” 

“I know,” he says, stationed at my side with one of my hands captured in both of his. He presses his lips to my knuckles and urges me on by the look in his eyes. “I know. But you got this. You’re strong, A. You just need to push a little longer, and she’ll be here. Your beautiful baby, huh? You wanna see your baby, right? I know I do.” 

“I do,” I sob, and throw my head to one side, gritting my teeth. 

I push as hard as I can, every muscle in my body straining, and scream at the top of my lungs. I’ve never experienced pain like this - white hot and demanding. 

“I want Jackson,” I wail, mouth wide open. “Alex, I want Jackson here right now!” 

“I know you do,” he says. “I know. But all you got is me, and that’s the best I can give you.” 

“April, give us one more push. The biggest one you can, we gotta get these shoulders through.” 

“One more push,” Alex encourages. “Push the hell out of it, A. I’ve never seen someone as tough as you. I know you can do this. Bring that little baby out, just one last push.” 

I bear down as hard as I can, my whole body violently shaking as I do. I’m surprised Alex’s fingers don’t break with the amount of pressure I’m forcing on them, but he never makes a move to pull away. 

“Wonderful! Beautiful!” the doctors say, and the slicing through my middle transforms into a powerful, dull ache. “Congratulations, April! I’d like you to meet your healthy baby girl.”

After her cord is cut, I open my eyes to see Evangeline crying as she’s being set on my chest, still covered in everything that came from my body. I don’t see any of that, though, none of the mess. 

All I see is a beautiful face, a beautiful body, a beautiful soul that Jackson and I created. And what’s more, I see a beautiful freckle right in the center of her tiny chest. Just like mine.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last numbered chapter before the epilogue!

**APRIL**

“Watch her head, Alex. Oh, my god. Be careful of her neck. Be careful!”

“Dude, chill out,” he says, situating the buckle on Evangeline’s chest. “I got it.”

We’re in the process of getting Angel into her car seat for the ride home. We’ve been recovering at the hospital for three days, learning everything that is new baby, and getting used to having an infant. Alex hasn’t left my side once; not that I thought he would, but it’s comforting all the same.

“She’s so tiny,” I say quietly. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”

“He’s doing just fine,” the nurse says, soothing me. “She’s not as fragile as you think.”

Evangeline’s eyes are closed, as they have been for most of the time she’s been alive. For the extent of her three-day life, she’s been very sleepy. I take one of her tiny hands and she wraps her fingers around mine, squeezing harder than what seems possible.

“I’m right here,” I whisper. “Mama’s right here, baby. I got you.”

“Uncle Alex did all the work,” Alex grumbles, lifting the car seat onto my lap as I lower into a wheelchair.

“You didn’t just push a human out of your vagina,” I say. “So, I really don’t want to hear it.”

“Point taken.”

With a nurse following, Alex wheels me out to the car with the baby strapped in on my lap. We spend a good amount of time figuring out how to attach the seat to the seatbelts, and I fuss for both myself and the baby as Alex flips through the instruction manual.

“It’s secure,” he says. “Look. Feel.”

He jostles the seat slightly.

“Be careful with her!” I insist, and slide in beside the seat. “Okay. Okay, I trust you. Let’s just go home.”

He drives slowly and carefully, and I keep one arm wrapped around the car seat so I can gaze into my baby’s face on the way. Her skin is a light caramel color, and her eyes - when she opens them - are a deep, indigo blue. I’m sure they’ll change as she grows older, but right now the shade is nothing short of magical.

“How’s she doing?” Alex asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

I look at her tiny fingernails, perfect and circular in shape. Her perfectly pink lips, her button nose. Her nearly nonexistent eyebrows and black shock of hair atop her head.

“So good,” I say, and stroke her cheek. Responding to the reflex, she turns her head to the side and opens her mouth, and I giggle softly.

When we get home, Alex insists on carrying the seat inside.

“I can do it,” I say.

“Like you said,” he grunts, carefully taking the carrier out. “You just pushed this little dude out of your body. I think I can do the heavy lifting.”

I allow him to, but I follow closely at his heels without taking my eyes away from the precious cargo inside. Evangeline opens her mouth in a wide yawn, eyes still closed, and sticks her tongue out. I smile at her, one arm braced on Alex’s bicep, and shut the door behind us.

“Alright, gimme my baby,” I say, and gently lift her out to hold her in my arms. Her weight is comforting, just like I’d imagined, and she makes small humming sounds next to my ear where her head rests. “Hi, baby,” I whisper, closing my eyes and leaning my cheek against her head. “Hi, Angel. This is your home. This is where we live.”

“Should we show her her room?” Alex asks, putting the seat away.

“Of course,” I say.

“Not like she’ll remember it,” he says.

“Still,” I say, and walk down the hallway with her. “Look at what your Uncle Alex did for you, Angel,” I say, perfectly aware that her eyes are probably still closed. “See, we painted the walls pink and got you a nice crib and changing table. We put a lot of pictures on the wall… see, baby?”

I prop her up a bit and show her the wall of photos that I framed and Alex hung. There’s a few of the two of us, some from years ago and one where I’m visibly pregnant. There’s one of the four of us - me, Alex, Addison and Amelia, too. But most of the photos on the wall are of Jackson and me, back when he was alive and we were happy. There are some of Jackson alone, too. The one of he and his mother after his high school graduation is up there, along with ones I took while we were together. In every single shot, he’s smiling. I want her to know him with a smile.

“That’s your daddy,” I whisper, pointing to a photo where Jackson’s tie is loosened around his neck while he sits at the dining room table, grading papers. He’s looking at me over his glasses, an amused glint in his eye. “That’s your daddy right there. Isn’t he handsome?”

Alex shoves his hands into his pockets and takes his eyes off of us while I show Angel everything I got for a short time, that she’ll never have.

“I think she likes it,” I tell Alex with a smile.

“Yeah?” he says.

I nod.

“How about your swing?” I ask, leading the way out of the nursery. “Is her swing set up?”

There’s a small, soft, rocking swing in the living room that was in pieces for months. It’s made specifically to soothe newborns, and it’s now set next to where I like to sit on the couch.

“All ready for her,” Alex says.

“Oh, let’s go look at this,” I say, stroking Evangeline’s back. I lay her down with care, buckle her in, and she sneezes. “Bless you,” I say, lightly.

I turn it on the lowest setting and it starts to rock back and forth. She opens her eyes and keeps them on me for a second, then I sit down on the couch and put my feet up.

“How’re you feelin’?” Alex asks, sitting as well.

“Exhausted,” I say, voice lowered from the high tone I’d been using with the baby.

He pats my shin a few times, steady and sure.

“You did a good job,” he says. “You are. You are doing a good job.”

I only have the energy to give him a weak smile before I fall asleep with the baby rocking next to me.

…

The baby eats every two hours, and even though I know I’ll be awake again before long, I change her into pajamas and get her ready for bed around 8pm.

“You need any help?” Alex asks, lingering in the doorway.

My hands shake as I try and change her diaper, and she starts to whimper and cry because she’s cold without pants. I’m not confident in handling her yet because she’s so tiny, and I have no experience with newborns. Everything is so new, and it’s terrifying.

For some reason, though, it doesn’t feel right to ask Alex for help. I don’t know why I thought I’d be instantly confident with her, because it isn’t like that at all. It’s exactly the opposite, actually. With any wrong move, I feel like she’ll break, and I’ll lose her like I lost him.

“I… uh, no,” I say. “I’m good. I’m a little hungry, though.”

“I can make something,” he says. “What sounds good?”

Evangeline starts to cry harder, eyes pinched and mouth open in an angry, pink circle.

“Um, anything,” I say, fingers still trembling. “Shhh, it’s alright, baby. I got you. Almost done. Almost done, just a little bit of powder on your bottom before we close you up.”

“You sure you got it?” Alex asks.

I look up after closing the diaper. “Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he says, and leaves as I put her in a soft, flowered onesie that has hand covers so she doesn’t scratch herself. It’s a feat in itself, getting all her limbs in the correct places, and she doesn’t like being maneuvered around, either.

“I know,” I say, finally snapping the buttons in place. “It’s not fun, I know. But Mama’s here,” I say, and lift her against my chest. “I got you.”

I sit in the rocking chair and try to breathe, calming myself down. The baby makes little grunting sounds along with her cries, which tells me she’s hungry again.

I pull the collar of my shirt aside and adjust my nursing bra, angling Evangeline’s head towards my breast. She doesn’t attach right away, she’s still getting the hang of things, but it doesn’t take too long before she latches and starts to eat.

I let out a sigh of relief. “There you go,” I say, and run my hand over her back while she rests against me. “That’s better.”

I close my eyes and rock back and forth, letting my mind go wonderfully blank while I nourish my baby. I’m disturbed only minutes later by the sound of Alex’s voice as he comes back into the room.

“Hey, just wondering if- oh, shit. Sorry.”

The baby flinches at the sudden sound, and I soothe her with a steady hand. It dawns on me that Alex is caught off guard by the sight of my breast, which I’d totally forgotten about until I saw the look on his face.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, voice groggy. “I have a feeling that, with her around, they’re gonna be out a lot.”

“Okay,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “But, uh, I was just wondering if you wanted penne or elbow noodles.”

I snort and say, “Either’s fine.”

I burp the baby once she’s done eating, holding her over my shoulder where the burp cloth lies. Once her stomach is settled and her eyes are droopy again, I lay her down in the crib for the first time.

I stand over it, one hand on her belly. “Kinda weird, isn’t it,” I say. “You’re in there all by yourself. So tiny.”

For safety reasons, there can’t be any stuffed animals or blankets, but still. She seems so lonely. I can’t bear to move far away from her, even with the security of the baby monitor. I have the intense need to stay nearby, so I lie on the floor and try to get comfortable.

Even though the carpet is soft, it’s not forgiving. But it doesn’t matter. Because of how exhausted I am, I fall asleep almost instantly after lying my head down on my upper arm.

“April,” I hear, what seems like mere seconds later. I hear the voice, and feel my shoulder being nudged. “Dude, wake up. Why’re you on the floor?”

“The baby…” I murmur, eyes half-open. “Is she okay? Baby?”

“She’s asleep,” he says. “You wanna have dinner?”

“No,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Too tired.”

“Alright, let’s get you to bed,” he says.

“No, I’m fine here,” I say, plopping my head down again.

He makes a frustrated sound. “You’re gonna kill your back,” he says. “You’ll regret it. Come on, you have the baby monitor. If she makes any sound at all, you’ll hear it. And it has the video feature I set up, too. You can see her.”

“I wanna stay,” I argue. “I want to be close to her.”

We make prolonged eye contact, and I can tell by the look on his face that he knows he won’t win. Towards the end, his features soften and his shoulders fall a bit - he gives in.

“At least sit in the chair,” he says. “It’ll be more comfortable.”

I compromise. I get up from the floor and recline in the rocking chair, hands capping the cushioned ends of the armrests. I lean my head back and close my eyes, then fall asleep almost instantly.

…

I get up numerous times throughout the night and lose track of time. My clock goes by what Evangeline wants, and she’s very demanding. I try and take advice from all the books and sleep when she does, and luckily, she sleeps a lot. But unfortunately, for very small amounts of time.

In the middle of the day when we wake up, Alex comes in the front door while she’s nursing. I hadn’t even realized he was gone.

“Where’d you go?” I ask, arms wrapped around my baby.

“Had to pick up something,” he says, out of breath. “I’ll show you.”

He brings it over, and I see that he’s bought a crib that attaches to the side of a bed.

“So you can have her close,” he says. “And also sleep like a normal person.”

“Oh, Alex,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing the box again. “So, I’m just gonna go set this up.”

I nod and watch him go in the direction of the guest bedroom, but something twists in my gut. I frown a bit, wondering what the feeling could mean, and realize I don’t want the crib in there. I want it in mine and Jackson’s bedroom. I want to sleep in there, with Evangeline’s bed attached to the one her father and I once shared.

“Alex, wait,” I say, trying not to raise my voice; I’ve learned it scares the baby. “Can you… can you put it on the bed in the master bedroom?”

I don’t offer an explanation as to why, because I wouldn’t know where to begin. I’m not sure how to lace the words together, or if they would make any sense if I tried.

His expression falters, and I feel it in my chest. Maybe he’d wanted her in there with us, or maybe this simply came out of left field and surprised him. Either way, he doesn’t let his disappointment show for long. Instead, he turns on his heel and walks the other way, headed to the other room with the boxed crib in hand.

That night, I sleep in the bed that I haven’t slept in for almost a year - this time, with my daughter by my side. I keep my eyes open and watch her while she sleeps; as her tiny belly rises and falls, as her miniscule fingers twitch from a dream. She is perfection, embodied.

I want him to see her, to know her, so badly, which is why I brought the both of us to the place where Jackson and I were closest. I hope, lying in this bed with the baby next to me, that I’ll bring us a little nearer to who we lost.

…

A month passes. A month full of sleepless nights, tiring days, spit up and tears. Tears not only from the baby, but from me, too. I cry a lot. I cry more than I ever thought was possible. Because not only am I crying for what Jackson is missing out on - the beautiful moments, her wonderful milestones - but I also cry from pure exhaustion and defeat.

Evangeline is tiny, but she is powerful. A tiny whimper from her can rouse me from the deepest slumber, and I am at her every beck and call all day, every day. I’m her mother - that’s how it should be - and Alex helps when he can, but I never knew it was this hard. This taxing, this demanding.

But today, graduation day, we’ve managed to keep it together. Since different majors graduate on different days, Alex is going to take Evangeline and watch me walk across the stage with her in the audience.

“I packed everything in the diaper bag,” I say, glancing back at the baby as we pull up to the arena where I’ll graduate. “Extra diapers, and an extra outfit if there’s a blowout. Pacifiers, bottles. She just ate before we left, though, so she should last until after it’s done. I’m hoping, at least.”

“We’ll be fine, A,” Alex says, then looks at the baby in the mirror. “Won’t we, Angel?”

She presses her lips together and forms a few spit bubbles, and Alex chuckles in response.

“Yeah, we’ll be just fine,” he says.

Over the past month, Evangeline has grown substantially. She can lift her head for short amounts of time while lying on her belly, and just moved it from side to side the other day. She loves to stare at her fingers and toes, though her eyes are still on the way to focusing - her eyes, that have turned dark blue from indigo and are getting lighter.

When it’s time for me to part from the two of them, I zip my robe and make sure my hat sits right.

“You look good,” Alex says, turning off the car.

I go around the back and pick the baby out of her seat gently, and cradle her in my arms. “Mama has go to graduate,” I tell her, then kiss her forehead. Her eyes try and follow the tassel hanging from my hat, but it’s a very difficult task. “I’m gonna leave you with Uncle Alex for just a little while. You guys will have fun. He’s gonna take good care of you, okay?”

She opens her mouth in a wide yawn, and I smile at her.

“You be good,” I tell her, running my fingers through her wispy black hair before looking up at him. “If you need me for anything, just call. I can get up and be wherever you need me, doesn’t matter.”

“A, you gotta breathe,” he says. “Today’s about you. I got the baby. I know what I’m doing. Just trust me.”

“I do,” I say, bouncing her slightly. “I do trust you.”

“How about you start with handing over the baby, then?” he asks, a joking glint in his eyes.

“Right,” I say, then kiss her. “I love you, Angel,” I say, and deposit her little body into Alex’s waiting arms.

“Look for us in the stands,” he says. “We’ll be cheering for you.”

I throw one last wave over my shoulder and tear up as I walk away from them. I know it’s silly, but I haven’t been more than a few feet away from Evangeline since the day she was born. I’ll still be in the same building, I have nothing to cry about, but my hormones aren’t quite stabilized yet. So, really, I don’t have much of a choice.

When the time comes, I sit with my classmates and fold my hands on my lap, waiting for my row to be called. We listened to a few speakers, none of which stuck with me. I can’t stop thinking about Jackson - Jackson, and what he would think now that I’m here, now that I’ve finished.

I tilt my head back and look at the ceiling, in the way I always do when I want to talk to him. I don’t speak aloud because I’m surrounded by people, but I think it forcefully enough for him to hear.

_Can you see me? Are you watching? Did I make you proud?_

I blink away more tears, and I’m sure they’re not the last that will come out of this day. I close my eyes for a moment and place my head level again, then search the audience for my two familiar faces. It takes me a while, but I eventually spot them. Alex is cradling the baby and waving at me, a big smile on his face. He gives me a thumbs-up, and I shoot one back.

The ceremony goes quickly once everyone starts walking. I expect to feel differently after receiving my diploma, but I don’t. How much could one piece of paper mean after all I’ve gone through in the past year?

What I care most about is finding Alex and Angel after it’s over. I weave through the giant crowd, looking for the top of Alex’s head, and find him in the company of two people I hoped we wouldn’t run into today.

“April Flowers!” Amelia says, extending her arms for me as Addison stands beside her. They’re in robes, too. I almost forgot they’d be graduating with me.

They each give me a big hug, and I do my best to return the gesture. It’s not easy, though. My body stiffens and I crane my neck away, out of the range of their flyaway hairs.

“Congratulations!” they chorus.

“Thanks,” I say, itching to get my baby in my arms. “You guys, too.”

I walk through the two of them and Alex wordlessly hands Evangeline over. I’m instantly comforted with her small body against my heart.

“Would you look at this little nugget,” Addison says. “I can’t believe you haven’t brought her by the house yet. She is so precious!”

“Did you come to watch your mommy graduate?” Amelia asks, crouching to look into the baby’s face.

“She’s so cute, April,” Addison says.

“Daddy brought you today, huh,” Amelia says, still cooing at the baby. “Her skin is darker than I thought it would be,” she adds, standing up to her full height. “That’s kind of funny.”

“It isn’t funny,” I say, tone sharp.

“Well, I mean just funny as in like, where did she get it from?” Amelia continues.

My emotions take over, as they’ve been doing so frequently lately. “Her father,” I say, point-blank. “She got it from her father.”

Addie’s forehead crinkles as she looks between Alex and Evangeline, then back again. Amelia does the same. I don’t say a word.

“Are you ready to go home?” I ask Alex, pressing my lips to my baby’s dark, black hair.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing between our two friends, who still look very confused.

But beneath the confusion, there’s a sort of realization that’s been there all along.

…

June filters into July, which steams into August, and before I know it, Evangeline is three months old. She’s been growing so fast that it seems like when I blink, she does something new. She kicks and props herself up on her arms, and laughs and smiles all day long.

She loves music, just like I do. Just like her daddy did. And today, in the kitchen, I have ‘Mine’ by Bazzi turned up on a mix CD I found in the junk drawer. I put it on, and this was the first song that played, and I couldn’t have been more excited.

“This is my song, baby!” I say, a big smile on my face.

Angel copies my expression and smiles with me, squealing as she does. I sing along with the song, swaying as her small body rests on my hip.

“You so - freakin’ - precious - when you - smile,” I sing, censoring the swear word for her. I spin around and she shrieks, blowing spit bubbles as my hair flies around my head while we dance.

“I’m so - freakin’ - happy - you’re a - live,” I continue, my forehead pressed against hers. I give her kisses and she closes her eyes to accept them, mouth still open in a gummy grin.

“I love you, sweet baby,” I say, under the music, still moving to it. “I love you so much.”

When the song ends, the kitchen is quiet for a moment until the next one comes on. Surprisingly, the first few notes of ‘Songbird’ play, and I’m frozen in place.

Hearing the music without understanding the gravity of the song, Evangeline claps her hands and wants me to dance again, I can tell. But I don’t. I stay standing there, rooted to the floor, staring ahead.

_For you, there’ll be no more crying. For you, the sun will be shining. And I feel that when I’m with you, it’s alright. I know it’s right._

_To you, I will give the world. To you, I’ll never be cold. ‘Cause I feel that when I’m with you, it’s all right. I know it’s right._

_And the songbirds are singing like they know the score… and I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before._

Evangeline touches my chin with her soft hand, bringing me back to earth. My eyes burn with tears, and Alex walks in the door just as I’m snapping out of my reverie. In that split second, when I close my eyes, I can almost smell Jackson’s cologne as if he were passing by.

“Hey,” Alex says, eyes on us with a few bags of groceries in his hands.

“Hey…” I say, zoned out.

“Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” I say, still absent.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I say again, then take one hand off the baby to shut the music off.

Alex comes over, arms outstretched and fingers wiggling. “Your mama’s acting like a big weirdo today, Angel. Come here and see Uncle Alex, c’mere!”

With a weak smile, I hand her over and she makes happy sounds while in his arms. He holds her close, kisses the top of her growing curls, and watches me wander out of the kitchen towards the bedroom.

I bought a book a couple months ago, on a whim. I was up late, nursing the baby and scrolling through Amazon when I found it. I didn’t tell Alex; once it came, I tucked it away and didn’t so much as open it. But now, I think I’m ready.

I go into the nursery to find it. I tucked it in the bookshelf among all the other nursery rhymes and cardboard books, but I spot it easily. It’s bigger than the rest. I pull it out, look at the untouched, beautiful cover, and mouth the title to myself.

_Wherever You Are My Love Will Find You, by Nancy Tillman._

I’m ready to read it to her now.

I’m fully aware that Angel won’t understand, but I will. And I’ll continue to read it to her as she gets older, too. There’s no better time than now to begin.

“Alex,” I say, book tucked under my arm. “Can I have the baby back?”

He’s still in the kitchen with her, having a snack while she balances on his hip.

“Oh, sure,” he says, chewing. “Is it nap time?”

“I just… I just want her,” I say, and she reaches for me and folds her small body against my chest with a contented sigh.

I walk us both into the nursery and sit in the rocking chair, then kiss the top of her soft head.

“I have a book I wanna show you, baby,” I say. “You won’t understand it yet, but Mama’s just gonna read it to you. And I’ll keep reading it to you, for as long as you want me to. Alright?”

She’s sleepy. Alex was right, it is close to nap time. That fact will make the story easier to get through, because she won’t be so interested in grabbing at the pages.

“It’s called ‘Wherever You Are My Love Will Find You,’” I say, flipping open the wide cover. Evangeline sits on my lap, back against my stomach, tucked close. “You ready?”

She buzzes her lips and rests the back of her head against the apex of my ribs. I take that as a yes. I clear my throat.

“I wanted you more than you ever will know, so I sent love to follow wherever you go,” I begin, trying to ignore the insistent lump in my throat. “It’s as high as you wish it. It’s quick as an elf. You’ll never outgrow it… it stretches itself!”

I kiss the top of her head again with the last line and she babbles along with me, copying my tones.

“So climb any mountain… climb up to the sky! My love will find you. My love can fly!”

I turn the page and she copies my hand movements as best she can in her fumbling, baby way.

“Make a big splash! Go out on a limb! My love will find you. My love can swim!”

I trace the picture with one finger - shown is an elephant on a beach, playfully spraying a burst of water at a boy wearing a hat.

“It never gets lost, never fades, never ends…” I trail off. “If you’re working… or playing… or sitting with friends.”

I drop my chin and close my eyes for a moment, flipping the page yet again.

“You can dance ‘til you’re dizzy… paint ‘til you’re blue… There’s no place, not one, that my love can’t find you.”

I take a break, a breath, a moment. I need one much more than she does, because I’m acutely aware of these words and who they inherently come from. Evangeline enjoys the closeness of her mother and the rise and fall of my voice, that’s all. The content means nothing to her, not yet. But to me, it means everything.

“And if someday you’re lonely, or someday you’re sad, or you strike out at baseball, or think you’ve been bad… just lift up your face, feel the wind in your hair…”

The tears stream down my face by now, but I don’t wipe them away. They fall into her tiny, spiral curls and sit there - shiny and glistening.

“That’s me, my sweet baby, my love is right there.”

Her weight grows heavier, her babbling quiets. She’s soft and pliant now, on her way to sleep.

“In the green of the grass… in the smell of the sea… in the clouds floating by… at the top of a tree… in the sound crickets make at the end of the day… ‘You are loved. You are loved. You are loved,’ they all say.”

I lower my voice to a whisper, because her breath comes easier and deeper now.

“My love is so high, and so wide and so deep, it’s always right there, even when you’re asleep.”

I close my eyes once more, centering myself in her presence. My baby, everything that Jackson and I created, is culminated right here into this tiny, precious human.

“So hold your head high and don’t be afraid,” I read, finishing up. “To march to the front of your own parade. If you’re still my small babe or you’re all the way grown, my promise to you is that you’re never alone.”

I take a moment to catch my breath. I had no idea the book would hit me this hard.

“You are my angel, my darling, my star… and my love will find you, wherever you are.”

I close the cover and openly weep, but quietly so not to wake her. I set the book on the floor and cradle the baby, rocking her side to side while gazing at her perfect face.

“That’s from your daddy,” I tell her, tracing her sweet features. “He loves you, Angel. And he would’ve loved to know you.”

I lean back in the chair, eyes wet and looking up towards the ceiling. When they’re open, all I see is the unmoving fan. But when I close them, I see Jackson’s face, watching us, admiring all that I’ve become because of her.

“Did you meet her?” I ask, voice settling in the air. “Do you already know her?”

Of course, I get no answer. But I convince myself, in the quiet nursery alongside me and our sleeping baby, Jackson is here.

…

The first word she speaks is ‘mama,’ of course.

She says it at 8 months old, in January. I’m walking into her nursery, to get her from the crib she takes naps in. She still sleeps next to me at night, but this room is quieter during the day.

With her arms stretched towards me, she opens her mouth and flashes her single tooth, saying, “Mama,” like she’s been saying it all her life.

I cried with joy, and laughed, too. I picked her up, swung her around, and listened to her babble the same word all day long.

I’m resting on the couch a few days later when I hear movement from the baby monitor. It’s late morning, around the time when she wakes up from her first nap, and Alex is still in bed. There’s no one in the room with her, but she’s talking like someone is.

I push the button on top of the monitor to watch her. She’s standing up, hands braced on the bars of the crib, eyes all around the room while speaking nonsense. She looks happy; her eyes are bright and there’s a hint of a smile on her face, as if she’s talking to me or someone she knows and loves. But no one is there.

I sit up slowly, keeping my eyes on the screen. I can’t help but let my mind wander where it wants to go - is Jackson with her?

I never voice those thoughts aloud. I don’t want to sound crazy, or for Alex to think I’m stupid. I don’t really think he would, but a part of me still downplays it.

I get up and make my way to the nursery, peeking my head in to see Angel in the middle of the same antics. She spots me before long, though, and squeals with joy.

“Mama!” she says, a warm greeting.

“Hi, honey,” I say, setting the monitor down and walking over. I lift her out of the crib, change her diaper quickly, and plant her on my hip. “Who were you talking to, huh? Who were you talking to in here?”

She opens her mouth and lets out a long, sweet sound, plunking her head down on my shoulder. She sticks her hand in her mouth and chews, getting it shiny with spit, and continues on in baby talk.

I take a step further. I walk to the bookshelf and pick up a small, framed photo of Jackson that I took around Christmas. He’s in the kitchen cooking, and my vantage point is from the counter a few feet away - my favorite spot.

“Were you talking to your daddy?” I ask, showing her the picture. She looks at it, blinking curiously. “Can you say ‘dada?’ Did you see him, Angel?”

Of course, she doesn’t answer. I kiss her temple, set the frame down, and walk out of the room towards Alex.

“Baby wants to see you,” I say, nudging the door with my shoulder.

He’s sitting in bed on his phone, but puts it down when he sees us. “Hey,” he says. “Look who’s up.”

I smile and set Angel down on his legs, and she scoots closer immediately. “She was just talking away in there,” I say.

“Chatterbox like Mama,” Alex says, laughing.

Angel reaches her arms out, fingers stretched towards Alex’s face. When she gets close enough, she grabs his nose with one hand and his chin with the other.

Then, she says, “Dada.”

The room is silent for a long, thick moment. I feel Alex’s eyes on me, but I’m staring at the back of Evangeline’s head. The back of her head that’s covered in beautiful, kinky curls that could have never come from Alex. I know exactly who they came from.

“She didn’t mean it,” he says. “She doesn’t know, A.”

“No, I know,” I say, but the tears are determined.

Of course she doesn’t know, because she wasn’t given the opportunity to know. Of course she thinks Alex is ‘Dada,’ because no matter how much I talk to her about Jackson, read her the book or show his picture, he isn’t present. He isn’t here, and Alex is. That’s who she sees. That’s who helps take care of her, that’s who gets her dressed and changes her diaper, makes dinner and gives Mommy hugs.

Alex is alive. Jackson is dead.

Evangeline learns by what’s in front of her. By what she lives with every day. And that will never be Jackson. He’ll never wake up to the sound of her crying, rock her to sleep on a cold night, or make her a bottle. He won’t see her first steps, attend her first birthday, or ever, ever kiss her goodnight.

“I know,” I say again.

“You’ll tell her someday,” he says. “But she’s just a baby now. She doesn’t get it.”

“I know,” I say again, seemingly the only thing I _can_ say. Because I do know. I am fully, completely aware of how absent Jackson is.

Missing him is like a hole in my heart.

...

When Evangeline is 11 months old in the month of April, I get a piece of mail from an address in Ohio. I stare at the envelope with the baby resting on my hip, thumb in her mouth.

I haven’t ever gotten something from Ohio. Moline, specifically. There’s no name listed, but I’m not stupid. I know who it’s from.

I don’t think it’s a letter, it’s too stiff. It’s cardstock, by the way it feels through the paper. I could spend all night theorizing, but all I do is set it on the counter, face-down, and walk away. I tell myself I don’t have any interest in opening it, and there’s no reason for me to see what’s inside. I should throw it away, but I don’t.

It stays on the counter, untouched by both myself and Alex. It just sits there, waiting. Like it knows I’ll eventually get to it. I know that, too, even as I try to fight the urge.

Three nights later, as I nurse Angel and she falls asleep curled against my chest, I can’t ignore it anymore. I carry her to my bedroom and lay her down in the crib, then pad into the kitchen where Alex stands, eating Chinese leftovers.

“What’s that?” he asks, regarding the white envelope in my hands.

“I’m not sure,” I say, and rip the seam carefully. Once it’s open, I pull out the thick piece of paper and see it’s an invitation - an invitation to a funeral.

_IN LOVING MEMORY_

_Of_

_Joseph L. Kepner_

 

_1960 - 2019_

 

_April 20th, 2019 at 12pm_

 

_Life Chapel_

_Willow Cemetery_

_Moline, OH 43465_

“Oh, my god,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“What is it?” Alex asks again, eyebrows furrowed.

“My…” I begin, but my voice trails off and goes weak.

“What?”

I set the paper back on the counter, but I keep my eyes on it. There’s no photo, no fancy design, just cut and dry. I would expect nothing more, assuming my mother created it.

“My… my dad died,” I say.

“Wait,” Alex says. “Shit.”

He knows the bare minimum about my family. He knows they weren’t nice people and that I essentially ran away from them, but he doesn’t know why. I don’t plan on ever telling another soul about that. Jackson was the only one I trusted enough to shoulder those secrets.

“How long’s it been since you’ve heard from them?” he asks.

“Christmas, freshman year,” I say, eyes still on the invitation. I can’t believe what I’m looking at, I can’t believe they extended it to me. I can’t imagine they want me there, so I can’t help but chalk it up to a mistake. Or maybe, all they’re trying to do is save face.

With whatever my family’s intent might be, it doesn’t scare me. I don’t feel afraid. Instead, I feel angry, and a small sense of retribution. My father, the one who inflicted years upon years of abuse against me, is dead. One small, quiet thought comes to me: God doesn’t only take the good people.

I’m not the same person I was when I left them at 18, I don’t know that girl anymore. I’m a woman now, I’m a mother. I’m still finding my balance in the world, but I’ve done everything they said I couldn’t. I’m everything they thought I’d never be. And I’m determined to show them, and prove it.

“The funeral is on the 30th,” I say.

Alex gives me a funny look. “You’re not going, are you?”

I don’t hesitate before I answer, “Yeah. I am.”

“Why?”

I press my lips together and sigh softly. He doesn’t come from all that great of a family, either, but he knew snippets of love as a child. His mother is mentally ill, not willfully blind. His father was absent, but not a tyrant. He doesn’t stand a chance in understanding, and even if he did, I have a feeling my explanation wouldn’t be all that telling.

“I just want to...” I say. “Pay my respects. Show them I’m alive. That I did it.”

He takes a deep breath, obviously a bit troubled by my words. But he eventually says, “Okay.”

“It’s in Ohio,” I say. “I’ll drive there.”

“Alright,” he says. “Uh, you gonna be okay leaving the baby with me?”

I frown slightly. It hadn’t crossed my mind not to take her - she’s an integral part of my plan, in the way I’ll present myself.

“No,” I say. “She’s coming with me.”

“April,” Alex says, in a tone that’s obviously trying to bring me back to earth. “You’re gonna drive with her, a _baby_ , all the way to Moline? That’s like, four hours. Or more.”

“We’ll be fine,” I say, determined. “She’s a good girl. She needs to come. I… I need her there.”

“Well, then I’ll come, too,” he says.

“No,” I say, instantly, adamantly. “I need to go alone.”

“Who’s gonna watch the baby during the funeral?” he asks.

“Me,” I say. “She’ll come. We’ll be together.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Think about this for a second,” he says. “You haven’t seen your family since whenever, and now you’re gonna bring your-”

“I don’t need a lecture from you on what to do with my child,” I say, firmly. “I’m driving to Ohio, and I’m bringing Angel. That’s the end of it. I’m her mother, and I make the decisions. Okay, Alex?”

He concedes, doesn’t fight me any longer, and I’m glad. It’s in his best interest.

…

When the day comes, Alex is still worried. He kissed my cheek before we left and gave me a long hug, then fussed over Angel like we were traveling across the world. The car ride wasn’t bad, though, and I checked into a motel as soon as we arrived so we could change clothes.

We ran a little late, which meant missing the service. But there’s still enough time to make it to the cemetery, which is what really matters.

I drive slowly along the beaten path, paved years and years ago. I grew up in this town, but rarely left the house unless it was for church, so I don’t know my way around like I would had I spent my childhood normally. This place is only a few miles from my house, but I’ve never been here before.

“Angel,” I say, glancing back at her while finding a secluded place to park. “Mama’s nervous.”

She chews on her fist and says, “Mama.”

“Yeah,” I say, resting with my hands on the wheel for a moment.

What will I say? How will they react when they see me? What’s more, how will they react when they see a baby in my arms - a baby with brown skin? I know for a fact that if they say anything derogatory about her, a switch will flip inside me. One I never had while I was with them, but one I’ve grown into now. They won’t like the way I react, either.

When I get out of the car, I see a small group of people huddled a good distance away. Everyone is dressed in black, but the long, red hair is unmistakable. It’s them. The whole lot of them.

I get Angel out of the back seat and place her on my hip, walking deftly around the front of the car - eyes unmoving. They have no inkling that I’m here - they must not have heard the car. My walk is silent, and Angel makes no sound. It’s like we aren’t here at all.

As I grow closer, my grip on the baby tightens. Today, I put her in a tiny black dress with black socks and shiny black shoes. She is dressed to mourn, but I don’t feel any sorrow. My father got what was coming to him, and it’s guaranteed he isn’t with his God now.

I see my mother. I see the woman who let it happen, right under her nose. Who witnessed the beatings and the ostracization and allowed him to cause me so much pain. Allowed him to ruin my childhood, and refused to help rebuild it. She stands and weeps for the man she loved, who wrecked her middle daughter’s budding spirit.

I press my lips to my own daughter’s warm temple. I will never let anything or anyone touch her. Judging by how much I love her, I have no idea how my mother could let what happened to me happen at all. How could she sit by and watch the brutal abuse of the girl who came from her, whom she created?

“No,” I whisper, hitching my baby a bit higher. I stop walking. I keep staring at them, the people who I used to call my family.

I won’t give myself back, and I won’t hand her over. I won’t say goodbye, and I won’t pay my respects.

None of them deserve my kindness; they never did. Not a single one of them deserves the love I have to give.

I take a deep breath and let it out, surrounded by headstones and death. But I hold life in my arms. I hold the life I created. And as I turn on my heel, I turn my back for the final time on the life I left behind.

Because of those people, I was made to feel like I’d never know true love, or that it always came at a price. That with love, came physical pain. But out of the many things Jackson taught me, one of them was this: that fact is the furthest thing from the truth.

I gave him my heart when it was the weakest, and he made me strong. His love continues in our daughter, our Angel, whom I fall more in love with every day.

After he passed, my world grew dark much in the way it had been prior to meeting him. But Evangeline, my little girl with the luminous smile, brought back the light. I realized I can’t fall in love without her.

Jackson gave me plenty of things, but the sweet baby on my hip is by far the best, most precious gift.

He might not be with me physically anymore, but I see him in our daughter every day. When she concentrates and crinkles her forehead, when I make her laugh while she’s in a bad mood, when she seeks out my comfort at night.

He gave it all to her - and through her, he gave everything to me.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for sticking with me through CFIL! this one has been cathartic, emotional, joyful and tragic, and i've enjoyed every moment. its been a challenge, but i've really loved it. you know i won't be gone for long, i'll be back before you know it with my next multichapter!

**APRIL**

The sun wakes me up in the morning, like always. 

I open my eyes slowly, fluttering my lashes as I come close to consciousness, and the first thing I see is a small, framed photo on the nightstand. It’s Angel’s first ultrasound, when she was twenty weeks old and I found out I was having a girl.

Tucked into the corner of the frame is a smaller picture, one of Jackson. It’s the professional shot that used to be on the University of Chicago’s website - also the one used in his obituary. I cut it from the newspaper, laminated it, and stuck it right next to our daughter. 

Next to the photos sits Liesel, more than four years later, healthy as ever. She hasn’t grown much since I first got her, but she’s flourished. Now, in the beginning of spring, her yellow petals are vibrant and happy. I just watered her yesterday, and she must have woken up with the sunlight, too. 

I reach to stroke one of her leaves, just like I used to do when she sat in my windowsill at the townhouse. She’s something that’s stayed constant, while so many other aspects of my life have changed. 

I live in the same city, but no longer the apartment I once shared with the man I loved more than anything. Living there didn’t feel right anymore, and as the dynamic between Alex and I began to change, our relationship was like an intruder inside something so familiar. 

It’s not that I thought Jackson would disapprove of what Alex and I were trying to navigate; it wasn’t that at all. I just didn’t like the feeling of creating something new in the place where something so special had come to an end.

Instead of waking up next to Jackson every morning, now I wake up with Alex. He’s been with me every step of the way - through my pregnancy, Angel’s infancy and toddlerhood, and now as she’s growing into a young child. Her fourth birthday just passed, and she’s changing every day. He doesn’t miss a thing. 

She doesn’t call him ‘Dada’ anymore. That didn’t stick for long. To her, he’s Alex, just like he is to me. And until a few weeks ago, she never asked too many questions about her father. She’d listen when I told her stories about him, and traced his features when I showed her pictures, but never yearned for details. 

All that changed when she turned four, and a few of her little friends brought their daddies to the party. After it was over and they left, she wanted nothing more than to know where hers was. 

I cried that night, harder than I had in a long time. Alex was there - he held me, consoled me, wiped my tears when I couldn’t. There are some days where grief makes me weak, debilitates me, makes me forget how far I’ve come. Because how far can it really be, if Jackson isn’t by my side to witness it?

If Jackson were alive, Alex would still be my best friend. He might be with Izzie, who we haven’t talked about in years, for all I know. But since that isn’t true, Jackson isn’t alive, Alex and I have taken special solace in one another. 

We’ve been best friends for years and years. The next natural step was to love each other. 

I don’t wear my engagement ring from Jackson on my wedding finger anymore, but I still keep it on. At one point, I tried to take it off after having a deep conversation with my therapist, but it didn’t work. I slept without it for one night and had nightmares until morning, tossed and turned so hard that I left bruises on myself. 

I haven’t taken it off since, but I wear it on the middle finger of my right hand. It’s a staple at this point; I never remove it. The weight is welcome, comforting; I’m naked without it. 

I twirl it now, rolling onto my back. Alex’s arm is slung heavy around my midsection, and the fabric of my shirt twists as I situate and adjust. He doesn’t wake, the heavy sleeper that he is, but grips my waist tighter to pull me close. 

He sighs, content, and snuggles against me - his breath puffing against my shoulder. I overlap his hand with mine and smile as he mutters in his sleep - words I can’t understand and don’t try to. 

I glance at the clock to see it’s a little past 8, and we should all be up by now. I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything from Angel yet this morning, but I decide not to question it. 

“Hey,” I whisper, dragging my fingernails over Alex’s arm. “Wake up.”

“Mmm.” 

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “It’s time to get up.”

“No,” he grunts, scooting closer to give me a sleepy kiss on the cheek.

“Morning, mama!”

The sound of a little voice parades into the room, then Angel comes into view. She’s wearing a pink princess dress that she got for her birthday a few days ago, complete with a wand, crown and soft slippers. 

And, of course, her trademark glasses. Her eyesight is as bad as her father’s was.

“Well, good morning to you,” I say, stretching my arms out. “Come here to Mama, sweet Angel.”

She leaps onto the bed, tosses the wand away, and flies into my arms. She knocks me back with the force of her small body and giggles into my neck. I laugh too, my eyes pinched tightly closed and my mouth wide open. 

“Hey,” I say, still smiling. “How’s my best girl?” 

“Your  _ only  _ girl, mama,” she says, sitting on my thighs to face me. “So, I kinda gotta be your favorite.” 

“That’s true,” I say, curling her wispy hairs behind her ears with both hands. “You’re so smart. You know that?” 

“I know,” she says, bunching her shoulders up next to her ears, and smiling so hard her cheeks squish. “You tell me all the time, mama.”

Turning away, she sets her sights on the lump beside me and presses on his shoulders with two hands. 

“Alex, time to get up,” she sings, pushing her weight against him. “Time to get up! Me and my mommy are awake, time to get up!” 

“There’s a bug on me,” he grumbles, face half-covered with the pillow. “An insect. Shoo, fly.” 

“I’m not a fly!” Angel shrieks, laughing.

“I’m gonna swat this dang fly,” Alex says, batting an arm around haphazardly.

“Don’t swat me!” my daughter giggles, leaning away from his hand. “I’m not a fly!” 

I wrap her in my arms and pull her back, and Alex sits up a bit and rubs his eyes. “Fine, I’m up,” he says.

But Angel’s attention is centered on me again. “Look, mama,” she says, removing her crown to place it on my head. “You’re a princess.” 

Princess. 

It was a title I tried on for a short time, but I haven’t been called that nickname for many years. I have a four-year-old daughter - talk of princesses and queens is a common theme in our house - but until today, I haven’t had the name bestowed upon me. 

It’s not said in the same context, but it brings back a rush of feelings. These emotions will hit me when I least expect it, sometimes due to pertinent reasons, but other times for nothing at all. 

I was Jackson’s princess for a little while. Looking back, I can see how he truly treasured me. Just as he was precious to me, I was to him. I don’t think I’ll get a feeling quite like that again. 

Alex calls me a handful of things. ‘A,’ ‘dude,’ and ‘babe’ being the main three. While I know Alex loves me and I love him, Jackson’s nicknames were much softer. The love between us was different - and everyone involved is acutely aware of that fact.

I haven’t fallen out of love with my baby’s father, and I don’t think I ever will. As long as I’m looking into Angel’s eyes - seafoam green and crystal clear - there will always be a part of Jackson here with me. Letting him go is not an option. 

Alex sees that, and he does his best to understand. He gets that what I had with Jackson will always be a part of me, and he is in no way trying to replace him. Alex is special to me in a much different way than Jackson - and so patient. He sees me through the hard days and celebrates the good ones. His intentions are pure and I love him with an entirely new sector of my heart.

I couldn’t deprive myself of human connection for the rest of my life. 

“Oh, I am?” I say, not missing a beat as Angel adjusts the tiara on my head. 

“The most prettiest princess in the world,” she says. “Princess April. And I’m the queen. Queen, Queen Evangeline!” 

“Nothing new there,” Alex says. 

“I know,” Angel says, chin set high. 

She has grown into her father’s confidence, that’s for sure. 

“Hey, when did you come to bed last night?” Alex asks me. 

With my hands still on Angel’s waist, I look over to him. “Oh, late,” I say. 

“You stayed up late, mama?” my daughter asks.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, continuing to fix her hair. 

“Doing what?” she asks. “Eating treats?”

I laugh. “No,” I say. “I was working on something.” 

“What were you working on?” she says, ever-so-curious. 

“Something your daddy started that I want to finish for him. For both of us, really.” 

This past year, I went back to school to get my master’s in Gender Studies. I’ve been working diligently on the paper Jackson started when we were in the beginning stages of our relationship called ‘Beyond Victim-Blaming: Strategies of Rape Response Through Narrative.’ 

It hasn’t been easy, completing his work and trying to line up my thoughts with his, but it’s been a rewarding process - while tedious and difficult. Some parts hit too close to home, which forces me to stop and bring myself to center. I’ve never been more grateful for my therapist. 

I ended up getting a recommendation from Naima, who Jackson used to see, as to who I should consider. She helped me through the process and stayed by my side, bolstering my confidence in making the right decision. I haven’t regretted it a day since starting, and I know, somewhere, that Jackson is pleased that I finally listened to the advice he’d been giving me for so long. 

“My daddy?” Angel says, tipping her head to one side. 

“Yeah,” I say.

“My daddy’s smart,” she says, full of pride.

Angel is four years old. At four, the concept of death is one we can discuss until we turn blue, but she still doesn’t fully understand. She shouldn’t have to at this age - but her case is special. My daughter has a personal relationship with death; she was born with it. 

She still talks about Jackson in present-tense when he’s brought up. I don’t correct her, because I haven’t sensed the right moment to have the conversation in depth. But the time is coming - I think, that time might be today. 

I’ve told her that her daddy is gone and isn’t coming back. I’ve told her that he passed away, that he died before she was born, but the look in her eyes each time the words pass my lips tells me she doesn’t believe me. 

To her, the world is kind and life is dependable. Daddy might be gone now, but she’ll meet him someday. 

I think the reason I’ve put off telling her the harsh truth for so long is because I’d like to believe that, too. But it’s gotten to the point where I’m no longer doing her a favor - I’m hurting her. It’s time to set this free, and allow her to feel that pain for the first time. 

It won’t be the last, either.

“He was,” I say, nodding. “Your daddy was the smartest person I ever knew.” 

“Not smarter than you,” she says, leaning forward and smushing my cheeks between her small palms.

“I’m not so sure about that,” I say, smirking. 

“Nobody’s smarter than you,” she continues. “Not Alex.” 

“Hey,” he says. “I’m innocent. I didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Cannonball!” Angel shouts, and jumps high into the air before landing on Alex’s stomach with a big thud. 

“Oof,” he grunts, doubling in half. “You’re getting too big to do that, kid.”

“I’m four!” she announces. 

She’s four. It’s time. I want to take her today. 

“Angel,” I say. “We’re going on a little trip later.” 

She flips around to look at me, an excited expression on her face. “A trip?” she says. 

“Just you and me,” I say, touching her chin. 

She grins, big and wide, then says, “Me and you!”

…

While Angel is getting dressed, Alex and I meet in the master bathroom. I’m in the shower while he talks to me outside, brushing his teeth. 

“Where’re you taking her?” he asks. 

“I think she’s ready,” I say. “To hear the whole truth about her dad and where he is.” 

“Oh,” he says. 

“I know,” I say. “But she has to find out, Alex, and I want her to hear it from me. I can’t keep beating around the bush and over-explaining, either. I don’t want her to get hurt later on, when someone else tells her in a way that’ll break her heart.” 

“You’re right,” he says. “I think it’s time, too.” 

“Do you wanna be there?” I ask. 

“Nah,” he answers. “You told her it was a mommy/daughter day. I don’t wanna butt in.” 

“You wouldn’t be, Alex,” I say. “You know that.” 

“Yeah, but…” he trails off. “I think it’s important that she finds out from you and you alone. You guys should just be together. I think she’ll appreciate that. If not now, then she will in the future.” 

I nod to myself, though he can’t see. 

“You’re right,” I say. 

“I try.” 

A few moments later, the glass door pops open and Alex stands there with a soft grin on his face. “I’m gonna go into work for a while,” he says. “Call if you need anything.” 

“Okay.” 

“Anything,” he says. 

“I will,” I say, smiling as I wrap my arms around myself. “You’re letting a draft in.” 

“Shush,” he says. “Gimme a kiss, and I’ll leave you alone.”

I pucker my lips and hold his chin for a long moment, and when we break away there’s a gentle look in his eyes that softens the blow for the rest of the day. 

…

I take Evangeline to Plein Air, the cafe where Jackson and I spent time together for the first time outside of school. She and I sit at the same table where I held hands with her father, thrilled that he was showing me secretive affection. I don’t have to concentrate very hard to remember how that felt. 

And now, sitting in the same spot I sat years ago, I’m looking into the eyes of his daughter, our daughter. They’re the same sparkling aqua and hold same flash of intelligence. They have the same deep love mirrored in them, reflected back at me. 

Jackson once said he wanted to give me the world and show me everything beautiful inside it. I come to the realization, while gazing into Angel’s eyes, that he accomplished his goal. 

“Mama, look at how big this cookie is!” she says, holding it in two hands. 

“I know,” I say. “That’s so crazy.” 

“I’m gonna eat it  _ all _ .” 

She takes a big bite and I watch her with a smile as I sip my latte. It slips my mind now, what I ordered here when Jackson and I came.

“Honey,” I say, and Angel’s eyes lift up. “I wanna talk to you a little bit. About your daddy.” 

“Daddy,” she says, a sweet grin on her face. 

“Daddy,” I repeat, then clear my throat. “First of all, it’s so important to me that you know how much I loved him. I loved him so much - I loved him more than I ever loved anything, ever before in my life. And I still love him. He was a very special person. He was smart, kind, and he always wanted the best for me. He always made sure I was taken care of. You know what I mean?”

“Like how you take care of me?” she asks. 

“Kind of,” I say. “Something like that, yeah.” 

“Where is he, mama?” 

Every time she asks that question, my heart sinks lower. The fact that she’s asking it again, right now, proves my point further that this needs to happen. 

“He’s gone, baby,” I say. “Because sometimes, good people die. And when people die, they go away. They go away forever.” 

Her forehead crinkles. “When you go away to school and I go to school are we going away forever?” she asks, visibly upset. 

“No, no, no, baby,” I say, reaching across to take her hand much in the way I’d taken Jackson’s. “No. Me and you have long lives ahead of us. Daddy was supposed to, too. But there was a monster in his brain that was really strong, and it came out of nowhere and took Daddy away too soon.” 

“Daddy… died?” she asks. 

“Yes,” I say, like it’s the first time even though it’s not. “And I am so sorry you never got to meet him. But honey, he’s not coming back.” 

“How?” she asks.

I sigh softly. I don’t know how else to explain it other than to show her. 

…

When we get out of the car at Graceland Cemetery, Angel opens the back door silently and looks around with concern. She’s never been to a place like this before. 

“Come on, baby,” I say, turning off the engine and walking around to get her. 

She plants her feet in the grass, the fronds reaching the toes of her shoes. Her eyes drift as she takes in her surroundings, then she sticks her arms in the air with a desperate look on her face. 

“Mama,” she says. “Uppy.” 

I oblige. I scoop her little body into my arms to rest on my hip, and tighten my grip on her. I’ve been here plenty of times, and I have the path to his headstone memorized. I could do it with my eyes closed. 

But I keep my eyes open today, mostly to watch my daughter. She nudges her tiny glasses up on her nose in a way that reminds me of Jackson. So much so, my heart twinges and I have to look away. 

“Where are we, mama?” she asks, her voice a tiny peep. 

She blinks slowly and presses her pink lips together. Her thoughts whir; her mind goes a mile a minute. I can tell by her expression.

“We’re going to see your daddy,” I tell her, equally as quiet. It doesn’t feel right to speak at a normal volume. 

We walk in silence for a few more minutes, then it comes into view. I set Angel on her feet, but she keeps my hand as we close the distance between the living and the dead. 

I drop to my knees slowly, knelt right in front of the stone. I lean forward, skim my hands over the shape, and press my lips to the cool surface.

“Hi, honey,” I whisper, too soft for Angel to hear. “I brought our baby with me today.” 

Evangeline lingers at my side, one hand on my shoulder. When she speaks, she worries the fabric of my shirt between her fingers. 

“Where is he, mama?” she asks. 

I look at the headstone and feel the earth beneath my knees, the earth she’s standing on - under which her father is buried. I think of all the moments that brought us here - all the moments of his she missed, and all the ones of hers he never saw. 

I think of how lucky I am to be privy to both. I’m blessed enough to have both of them in my lifetime. I make a promise to always give them to each other, let them know each other, in the best ways I know how. 

“That’s why we’re here,” I say, taking Angel’s hand and looking up at her face. “This is what I wanted to show you.” 


	23. The Book List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this story was so heavily centered around books, so here is the master list of all the books mentioned! (in no order)

A Room of One's Own - Virginia Woolf

Sister Outsider - Audre Lord

Borderlands / La Frontera - Gloria Anzaldua

The Feminine Mystique - Betty Friedan

The Color Purple - Alice Walker

The Vagina: A Literary and Cultural History - Emma L. E. Rees

Lolita - Vladmir Nabokov

The Book Thief - Markus Zusak

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides

Gender Outlaw: On Men, Women and The Rest of Us - Kate Bornstein

The Second Sex - Simone de Beauvoir

Undoing Gender - Judith Butler

Darling Days - iO Tillett Wright

The Sound and The Fury - William Faulkner

Orgasmology - Annamarie Jagose

Wherever You Go My Love Will Find You - Nancy Tillman


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